Different    Girls 


EDITED  BY 
WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

AND 
HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN 


Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 

New  York  and  London 


Copyright,  1895,  1896,  1897,  1904,  1905,  1906,  by 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


Ail  rights  rtiervtd. 


RICHARD   LE    GALLIENNE 

THE  LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET 

ELIZABETH  JORDAN 

KITTIE'S  SISTER  JOSEPHINE 

ALICE   BROWN 

THE  WIZARD'S   TOUCH 

CHARLES  B.  DE   CAMP 

THE  BITTER  CUP 

MARY  APPLEWHITE   BACON 

HIS  SISTER 

ELEANOR  A.  HALLOWELL 

THE  PERFECT   YEAR 

WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

EDITH  A  . 

OCTAVE   THANET 

THE  STOUT  MISS  HOPKINS' S 

BICYCLE 

MARY   M.  MEARS 

THE  MARRYING  OF  ESTHER 

JULIAN  RALPH 

CORDELIA'S  NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE 

E.  A.  ALEXANDER 

THE  PRIZE-FUND  BENEFICIARY 


274308 


Introduction 

IT  is  many  years  now  since  the  Amer 
ican  Girl  began  to  engage  the  conscious 
ness  of  the  American  novelist.  Before 
the  expansive  period  following  the  Civil 
War,  in  the  later  eighteen-sixties  and 
the  earlier  eighteen-seventies,  she  had  of 
course  been  his  heroine,  unless  he  went 
abroad  for  one  in  court  circles,  or  back 
for  one  in  the  feudal  ages.  Until  the 
time  noted,  she  had  been  a  heroine  and 
then  an  American  girl.  After  that  she 
was  an  American  girl,  and  then  a  hero 
ine;  and  she  was  often  studied  against 
foreign  backgrounds,  in  contrast  with 
other  international  figures,  and  her  value 
ascertained  in  comparison  with  their 
valuelessness,  though  sometimes  she  was 
portrayed  in  those  poses  of  flirtation  of 
which  she  was  born  mistress.  Even  in 
these  her  superiority  to  all  other  kinds 
of  girls  was  insinuated  if  not  asserted. 

The  young  ladies  in  the  present  col- 


vi  Introduction 

lection  are  all  American  girls  but  one, 
if  we  are  to  suppose  Mr.  Le  Gallienne's 
winning  type  to  be  of  the  same  English 
origin  as  himself.  We  can  be  surer  of 
him  than  of  her,  however;  but  there  is 
no  question  of  the  native  Americanness 
of  Mrs.  Alexander's  girl,  who  is  done 
so  strikingly  to  the  life,  with  courage 
to  grapple  a  character  and  a  tem 
perament  as  uncommon  as  it  is  true, 
which  we  have  rarely  found  among  our 
nctionists.  Having  said  this,  we  must 
hedge  in  favor  of  Miss  Jordan's  most 
autochthonic  Miss  Kittie,  so  young  a 
girl  as  to  be  still  almost  a  little  girl,  and 
with  a  head  full  of  the  ideals  of  little- 
girlhood  concerning  young-girlhood.  The 
pendant  to  her  pretty  picture  is  the  study 
of  elderly  girlhood  by  Octave  Thanet, 
or  that  by  Miss  Alice  Brown,  the  one 
with  its  ideality,  and  the  other  with 
its  humor.  The  pathos  of  "  The  Perfect 
Year"  is  as  true  as  either  in  its  truth 
to  the  girlhood  which  "  never  knew  an 
earthly  close,"  and  yet  had  its  fill  of 
rapture.  Julian  Ralph's  strong  and  free 
sketch  contributes  a  fresh  East  Side 
flower,  hollyhock-like  in  its  gaudiness,  to 
the  garden  of  American  girls,  Irish- 
American  in  this  case,  but  destined  to 
be  companioned  hereafter  by  blossoms 


Introduction  vii 

of  our  Italian-American,  Yiddish-Amer 
ican,  and  Russian-American  civilization, 
as  soon  as  our  nascent  novelists  shall 
have  the  eye  to  see  and  the  art  to  show 
them.  Meantime,  here  are  some  of  our 
Different  Girls  as  far  as  they  or  their 
photographers  have  got,  and  their  ac 
quaintance  is  worth  having. 

W.  D.  H. 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret 

BY  RICHARD   LE   GALLIENNE 

MiRGARET  had  seen  her  five  sisters 
one  by  one  leave  the  family  nest, 
to  set  up  little  nests  of  their  own. 
Her  brother,  the  eldest  child  of  a  family 
of  seven,  had  left  the  old  home  almost 
beyond  memory,  and  settled  in  London. 
Now  and  again  he  made  a  flying  visit 
to  the  small  provincial  town  of  his  birth, 
and  sometimes  he  sent  two  little  daugh 
ters  to  represent  him — for  he  was  al 
ready  a  widowed  man,  and  relied  occa 
sionally  on  the  old  roof-tree  to  replace 
the  lost  mother.  Margaret  had  seen 
what  sympathetic  spectators  called  her 
"  fate "  slowly  approaching  for  some 
time — particularly  when,  five  years  ago, 
she  had  broken  off  her  engagement  with 
a  worthless  boy.  She  had  loved  him 
deeply,  and,  had  she  loved  him  less,  a 
refined  girl  in  the  provinces  does  not 
find  it  easy  to  replace  a  discarded  suitor 
— for  the  choice  of  young  men  is  not  ex- 

D.  G. 


2  Harper's  Novelettes 

cessive.  Her  sisters  had  been  more  for 
tunate,  and  so,  as  I  have  said,  one  by 
one  they  left  their  father's  door  in  bridal 
veils.  But  Margaret  stayed  on,  and  at 
length,  as  had  been  foreseen,  became  the 
sole  nurse  of  a  beautiful  old  invalid 
mother,  a  kind  of  lay  sister  in  the  nun 
nery  of  home. 

She  came  of  a  beautiful  family. 
In  all  the  big  family  of  seven  there 
was  not  one  without  some  kind  of 
good  looks.  Two  of  her  sisters  were 
acknowledged  beauties,  and  there  were 
those  who  considered  Margaret  the  most 
beautiful  of  all.  It  was  all  the  harder, 
such  sympathizers  said,  that  her  youth 
should  thus  fade  over  an  invalid's  couch, 
the  bloom  of  her  complexion  be  rubbed 
out  by  arduous  vigils,  and  the  lines 
prematurely  etched  in  her  skin  by  the 
strain  of  a  self-denial  proper,  no  doubt, 
to  homely  girls  and  professional  nurses, 
but  peculiarly  wanton  and  wasteful  in  the 
case  of  a  girl  so  beautiful  as  Margaret. 

There  are,  alas!  a  considerable  num 
ber  of  women  predestined  by  their 
lack  of  personal  attractiveness  for  the 
humbler  tasks  of  life.  Instinctively  we 
associate  them  with  household  work, 
nursing,  and  the  general  drudgery  of  ex 
istence.  One  never  dreams  of  their  hav- 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret       3 

ing  a  life  of  their  own.  They  have 
no  accomplishments,  nor  any  of  the 
feminine  charms.  Women  to  whom  an 
offer  of  marriage  would  seem  as  ter 
rifying  as  a  comet,  they  belong  to  the 
neutrals  of  the  human  hive,  and  are, 
practically  speaking,  only  a  little  higher 
than  the  paid  domestic.  Indeed,  perhaps 
their  one  distinction  is  that  they  receive 
no  wages. 

Now  for  so  attractive  a  girl  as  Mar 
garet  to  be  merged  in  so  dreary,  un 
distinguished  a  class  was  manifestly 
preposterous.  It  was  a  stupid  misap 
plication  of  human  material.  A  plainer 
face  and  a  more  homespun  fibre  would 
have  served  the  purpose  equally  well. 

Margaret  was  by  no  means  so  much 
a  saint  of  self-sacrifice  as  not  to  have 
realized  her  situation  with  natural  hu 
man  pangs.  Youth  only  comes  once — 
especially  to  a  woman;  and 

No  hand  can  gather  up  the  withered  fallen 
petals  of  the  Rose  of  youth. 

Petal  by  petal,  Margaret  had  watched 
the  rose  of  her  youth  fading  and  falling. 
More  than  all  her  sisters,  she  was  en 
dowed  with  a  zest  for  existence.  Her 
superb  physical  constitution  cried  out 
for  the  joy  of  life.  She  was  made  to 


4  Harper's  Novelettes 

"be  a  great  lover,  a  great  mother;  and 
to  her,  more  than  most,  the  sunshine 
falling  in  muffled  beams  through  the  lat 
tices  of  her  mother's  sick-room  came  with 
a  maddening  summons  to — live.  She 
was  so  supremely  fitted  to  play  a  tri 
umphant  part  in  the  world  outside  there, 
so  gay  of  heart,  so  victoriously  vital. 

At  first,  therefore,  the  renunciation,  ac 
cepted  on  the  surface  with  so  kind  a  face, 
was  a  source  of  secret  bitterness  and 
hidden  tears.  But  time,  with  its  mercy 
of  compensation,  had  worked  for  her  one 
of  its  many  mysterious  transmutations, 
and  shown  her  of  what  fine  gold  her 
apparently  leaden  days  were  made.  She 
was  now  thirty-three;  though,  for  all  her 
nursing  vigils,  she  did  not  look  more 
than  twenty-nine,  and  was  now  more 
than  resigned  to  the  loss  of  the  peculiar 
opportunities  of  youth — if,  indeed,  they 
could  be  said  to  be  lost  already.  "An 
old  maid,"  she  would  say,  "  who  has  cheer 
fully  made  up  her  mind  to  be  an  old 
maid,  is  one  of  the  happiest,  and,  indeed, 
most  enviable,  people  in  all  the  world." 

Resent  the  law  as  we  may,  it  is  none 
the  less  true  that  renunciation  brings 
with  it  a  mysterious  initiation,  a  finer 
insight.  Its  discipline  would  seem  to 
refine  and  temper  our  organs  of  spiritual 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret        5 

perception,  and  thus  make  up  for  the 
commoner  experience  lost  by  a  rarer  ex 
perience  gained.  By  dedicating  herself 
to  her  sick  mother,  Margaret  undoubted 
ly  lost  much  of  the  average  experience 
of  her  sex  and  age,  but  almost  imper 
ceptibly  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  her 
that  she  made  some  important  gains  of 
a  finer  kind.  She  had  been  brought  very 
close  to  the  mystery  of  human  life,  closer 
than  those  who  have  nothing  to  do  beyond 
being  thoughtlessly  happy  can  ever  come. 
The  nurse  and  the  priest  are  initiates 
of  the  same  knowledge.  Each  alike  is 
a  sentinel  on  the  mysterious  frontier 
between  this  world  and  the  next.  The 
nearer  we  approach  that  frontier,  the 
more  we  understand  not  only  of  that 
world  on  the  other  side,  but  of  the  world 
on  this.  It  is  only  when  death  throws 
its  shadow  over  the  page  of  life  that  we 
realize  the  full  significance  of  what  we 
are  reading.  Thus,  by  her  mother's  bed 
side,  Margaret  was  learning  to  read  the 
page  of  life  under  the  illuminating  shad 
ow  of  death. 

But,  apart  from  any  such  mystical 
compensation,  Margaret's  great  reward 
was  that  she  knew  her  beautiful  old 
mother  better  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world  knew  her.  As  a  rule,  and  par- 


6  Harper's  Novelettes 

ticularly  in  a  large  family,  parents  re 
main  half  mythical  to  their  children,  awe- 
inspiring  presences  in  the  home,  colossal 
figures  of  antiquity,  about  whose  knees 
the  younger  generation  crawls  and  gropes, 
but  whose  heads  are  hidden  in  the  mists 
of  prehistoric  legend.  They  are  like 
personages  in  the  Bible.  They  impress 
our  imagination,  but  we  cannot  think 
of  them  as  being  quite  real.  Their  his 
tories  smack  of  legend.  And  this,  of 
course,  is  natural,  for  they  had  been  in 
the  world,  had  loved  and  suffered,  so 
long  before  us  that  they  seem  a  part 
of  that  antenatal  mystery  out  of  which 
we  sprang.  When  they  speak  of  their 
old  love-stories,  it  is  as  though  we  were 
reading  Homer.  It  sounds  so  long  ago. 
We  are  surprised  at  the  vividness  with 
which  they  recall  happenings  and  per 
sonalities  past  and  gone  before,  as  they 
tell  us,  we  were  born.  Before  we  were 
born !  Yes !  They  belong  to  that  myste 
rious  epoch  of  time — "  before  we  were 
born " ;  and  unless  we  have  a  taste  for 
history,  or  are  drawn  close  to  them  by 
some  sympathetic  human  exigency,  as 
Margaret  had  been  drawn  to  her  mother, 
we  are  too  apt,  in  the  stress  of  making 
our  own,  to  regard  the  history  of  our 
parents  as  dry-as-dust. 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret        7 

As  the  old  mother  sits  there  so  quiet 
in  her  corner,  her  body  worn  to  a  silver 
thread,  and  hardly  anything  left  of  her 
but  her  indomitable  eyes,  it  is  hard,  at 
least  for  a  young  thing  of  nineteen,  all 
aflush  and  aflurry  with  her  new  party 
gown,  to  realize  that  that  old  mother  is 
infinitely  more  romantic  than  herself. 
She  has  sat  there  so  long,  perhaps,  as  to 
have  come  to  seem  part  of  the  inanimate 
furniture  of  home  rather  than  a  living 
being.  Well!  the  young  thing  goes  to 
her  party,  and  dances  with  some  callow 
youth  who  pays  her  clumsy  compliments, 
and  Margaret  remains  at  home  with  the 
old  mother  in  her  corner.  It  is  hard  on 
Margaret !  Yes ;  and  yet,  as  I  have  said, 
it  is  thus  she  comes  to  know  her  old 
mother  better  than  any  one  else  knows 
her — society  perhaps  not  so  poor  an  ex 
change  for  that  of  smart,  immature 
young  men  of  one's  own  age. 

As  the  door  closes  behind  the  impor 
tant  rustle  of  youthful  laces,  and  Mar 
garet  and  her  mother  are  left  alone,  the 
mother's  old  eyes  light  up  with  an  al 
most  mischievous  smile.  If  age  seems 
humorous  to  youth,  youth  is  even  more 
humorous  to  age. 

"  It  is  evidently  a  great  occasion,  Peg," 
the  old  voice  says,  with  the  suspicion  of 


8  Harper's  Novelettes 

a  gentle  mockery.  "Don't  you  wish  you 
were  going?" 

"You  naughty  old  mother!"  answers 
Margaret,  going  over  and  kissing  her. 

The  two  understand  each  other. 

"  Well,  shall  we  go  on  with  our  book  ?" 
says  the  mother,  after  a  while. 

"Yes,  dear,  in  a  moment.  I  have 
first  to  get  you  your  diet,  and  then  we 
can  begin." 

"  Bother  the  diet!"  says  the  courageous 
old  lady;  "for  two  pins  I'd  go  to  the 
ball  myself.  That  old  taffeta  silk  of  mine 
is  old  enough  to  be  in  fashion  again. 
What  do  you  say,  Peg,  if  you  and  I  go 
to  the  ball  together  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  it's  too  much  trouble  dressing, 
mother.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is,"  answers  the 
mother.  "  Besides,  I  want  to  hear  what 
happens  next  to  those  two  beautiful 
young  people  in  our  book.  So  be  quick 
with  my  old  diet,  and  come  and  read  .  .  J" 

There  is  perhaps  nothing  so  lovely  or 
so  well  worth  having  as  the  gratitude 
of  the  old  towards  the  young  that  care 
to  give  them  more  than  the  perfunctory 
ministrations  to  which  they  have  long 
since  grown  sadly  accustomed.  There 
was  no  reward  in  the  world  that  Mar 
garet  would  have  exchanged  for  the  sweet 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret       9 

looks  of  her  old  mother,  who,  being  no 
merely  selfish  invalid,  knew  the  value 
and  the  cost  of  the  devotion  her  daugh 
ter  was  giving  her. 

"  I  can  give  you  so  little,  my  child, 
for  all  you  are  giving  me,"  her  mother 
would  sometimes  say ;  and  the  tears  would 
spring  to  Margaret's  eyes. 

Yes!  Margaret  had  her  reward  in 
this  alone — that  she  had  cared  to  decipher 
the  lined  old  document  of  her  mother's 
face.  Her  other  sisters  had  passed  it  by 
more  or  less  impatiently.  It  was  like 
some  ancient  manuscript  in  a  museum, 
which  only  a  loving  and  patient  scholar 
takes  the  trouble  to  read.  But  the  mo 
ment  you  begin  to  pick  out  the  words, 
how  its  crabbed  text  blossoms  with  beau 
tiful  meanings  and  fascinating  messages ! 
It  is  as  though  you  threw  a  dried  rose 
into  some  magic  water,  and  saw  it  un 
fold  and  take  on  bloom,  and  fill  with 
perfume,  and  bring  back  the  nightingale 
that  sang  to  it  so  many  years  ago.  So 
Margaret  loved  her  mother's  old  face, 
and  learH^i  to  know  the  meaning  of 
every  line  on  it.  Privileged  to  see  that 
old  face  in  all  its  private  moments  of 
feeling,  under  the  transient  revivification 
of  deathless  memories,  she  was  able,  so  to 
say,  to  reconstruct  its  perished  beauty, 


io  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  realize  the  romance  of  which  it  was 
once  the  alluring  candle.  For  her  mother 
had  been  a  very  great  beauty,  and  if,  like 
Margaret,  you  are  able  to  see  it,  there 
is  no  history  so  fascinating  as  the  by 
gone  love-affairs  of  old  people.  How 
much  more  fascinating  to  read  one's 
mother's  love-letters  than  one's  own ! 

Even  in  the  history  of  the  heart  recent 
events  have  a  certain  crudity,  and  love 
itself  seems  the  more  romantic  for  hav 
ing  lain  in  lavender  for  fifty  years.  A 
certain  style,  a  certain  distinction,  be 
yond  question  go  with  antiquity,  and 
to  spend  your  days  with  a  refined  old 
mother  is  no  less  an  education  in  style 
and  distinction  than  to  spend  them  in 
the  air  of  old  cities,  under  the  shadow 
of  august  architecture  and  in  the  sunset 
of  classic  paintings. 

The  longer  Margaret  lived  with  her 
old  mother,  the  less  she  valued  the  so- 
called  "  opportunities  "  she  had  missed. 
Coming  out  of  her  mother's  world  of 
memories,  there  seemed  something  small, 
even  common,  about  the  younger  genera 
tion  to  which  she  belonged, — something 
lacking  in  significance  and  dignity. 

For  example,  it  had  been  her  dream, 
as  it  is  the  dream  of  every  true  woman, 
to  be  a  mother  herself :  and  yet,  somehow 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret      it 

— though  she  would  not  admit  it  in  so 
many  words — when  her  young  married 
sisters  came  with  their  babies,  there  was 
something  about  their  bustling  and  com 
placent  domesticity  that  seemed  to  make 
maternity  bourgeois.  She  had  not  dream 
ed  of  being  a  mother  like  that.  She  was 
convinced  that  her  old  mother  had  never 
been  a  mother  like  that.  "They  seem 
more  like  wet-nurses  than  mothers,"  she 
said  to  herself,  with  her  wicked  wit. 

Was  there,  she  asked  herself,  some 
thing  in  realization  that  inevitably  lost 
you  the  dream  ?  Was  to  incarnate  an  ideal 
to  materialize  it?  Did  the  finer  spirit 
of  love  necessarily  evaporate  like  some 
volatile  essence  with  marriage  ?  Was  it 
better  to  remain  an  idealistic  specta 
tor  such  as  she — than  to  run  the  risks 
of  realization  ? 

She  was  far  too  beautiful,  and  had 
declined  too  many  offers  of  commonplace 
marriage,  for  such  questioning  to  seem 
the  philosophy  of  disappointment.  In 
deed,  the  more  she  realized  her  own  situ 
ation,  the  more  she  came  to  regard  what 
others  considered  her  sacrifice  to  her 
mother  as  a  safeguard  against  the  risk 
of  a  mediocre  domesticity.  Indeed,  she 
began  to  feel  a  certain  pride,  as  of  a 
priestess,  in  the  conservation  of  the  dig- 


12  Harper's  Novelettes 

nity  of  her  nature.  It  is  better  to  be  a 
vestal  virgin  than — some  mothers. 

And,  after  all,  the  maternal  instinct 
of  her  nature  found  an  ideal  outlet  in 
her  brother's  children  —  the  two  little 
motherless  girls  who  came  every  year  to 
spend  their  holidays  with  their  grand 
mother  and  their  aunt  Margaret. 

Margaret  had  seen  but  little  of  their 
mother,  but  her  occasional  glimpses  of 
her  had  left  her  with  a  haloed  image  of 
a  delicate,  spiritual  face  that  grew  more 
and  more  Madonna-like  with  memory. 
The  nimbus  of  the  Divine  Mother,  as 
she  herself  had  dreamed  of  her,  had 
seemed  indeed  to  illumine  that  grave 
young  face. 

It  pleased  her  imagination  to  take  the 
place  of  that  phantom  mother,  herself — 
a  phantom  mother.  And  who  knows  but 
that  such  dream-children,  as  she  called 
those  two  little  girls,  were  more  satis 
factory  in  the  end  than  real  children? 
They  represented,  so  to  say,  the  poetry 
of  children.  Had  Margaret  been  a  real 
mother,  there  would  have  been  the  prose 
of  children  as  well.  But  here,  as  in  so 
much  else,  Margaret's  seclusion  from 
the  responsible  activities  of  the  outside 
world  enabled  her  to  gather  the  fine  flow 
er  of  existence  without  losing  the  sense 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret      13 

of  it  in  the  cares  of  its  cultivation.  I 
think  that  she  comprehended  the  wonder 
and  joy  of  children  more  than  if  she  had 
been  a  real  mother. 

Seclusion  and  renunciation  are  great 
sharpeners  and  refiners  of  the  sense  of 
joy,  chiefly  because  they  encourage  the 
habit  of  attentiveness. 

"  Our  excitements  are  very  tiny,"  once 
said  the  old  mother  to  Margaret,  "  there 
fore  we  make  the  most  of  them." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  mother," 
Margaret  had  answered.  "I  think  it  is 
theirs  that  are  tiny — trivial  indeed,  and 
ours  that  are  great.  People  in  the  world 
lose  the  values  of  life  by  having  too 
much  choice ;  too  much  choice — of  things 
not  worth  having.  This  makes  them  miss 
the  real  things — just  as  any  one  living 
in  a  city  cannot  see  the  stars  for  the 
electric  lights.  But  we,  sitting  quiet  in 
our  corner,  have  time  to  watch  and  listen, 
when  the  others  must  hurry  by.  We 
have  time,  for  instance,  to  watch  that 
sunset  yonder,  whereas  some  of  our 
worldly  friends  would  be  busy  dressing 
to  go  out  to  a  bad  play.  We  can  sit 
here  and  listen  to  that  bird  singing  his 
vespers,  as  long  as  he  will  sing — and 
personally  I  wouldn't  exchange  him  for 
a  prima  donna.  Far  from  being  poor  in 


14  Harper's  Novelettes 

excitements,  I  think  we  have  quite  as 
many  as  are  good  for  us,  and  those  we 
have  are  very  beautiful  and  real." 

"  You  are  a  brave  child,"  answered  her 
mother.  "  Come  and  kiss  me,"  and  she 
took  the  beautiful  gold  head  into  her 
hands  and  kissed  her  daughter  with  her 
sweet  old  mouth,  so  lost  among  wrinkles 
that  it  was  sometimes  hard  to  find  it. 

"But  am  I  not  right,  mother?"  said 
Margaret. 

"  Yes !  you  are  right,  dear,  but  you 
seem  too  young  to  know  such  wisdom." 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  it,  darling," 
answered  Margaret,  bending  down  and 
kissing  her  mother's  beautiful  gray  hair. 

"Ah!  little  one,"  replied  the  moth 
er,  "  it  is  well  to  be  wise,  but  it  is 
good  to  be  foolish  when  we  are  young 
— and  I  fear  I  have  robbed  you  of 
your  foolishness." 

"I  shall  believe  you  have  if  you  talk 
like  that,"  retorted  Margaret,  laughingly 
taking  her  mother  into  her  arms  and 
gently  shaking  her,  as  she  sometimes  did 
when  the  old  lady  was  supposed  to  have 
been  "naughty." 

So  for  Margaret  and  her  mother  the 
days  pass,  and  at  first,  as  we  have  said, 
it  may  seem  a  dull  life,  and  even  a  hard 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret      15 

one,  for  Margaret.  But  she  herself  has 
long  ceased  to  think  so,  and  she  dreads 
the  inevitable  moment  when  the  divine 
friendship  between  her  and  her  old 
mother  must  come  to  an  end.  She 
knows,  of  course,  that  it  must  come,  and 
that  the  day  cannot  be  far  off  when  the 
weary  old  limbs  will  refuse  to  make  the 
tiny  journeys  from  bedroom  to  rocking- 
chair,  which  have  long  been  all  that  has 
been  demanded  of  them ;  when  the  brave, 
humorous  old  eyes  will  be  so  weary  that 
they  cannot  keep  open  any  more  in  this 
world.  The  thought  is  one  that  is  in- 
supportably  lonely,  and  sometimes  she 
looks  at  the  L  invalid-chair,  at  the  cup 
and  saucer  in  which  she  serves  her  moth 
er's  simple  food,  at  the  medicine-bottle 
and  the  measuring-glass,  at  the  knitted 
shawl  which  protects  the  frail  old  form 
against  draughts,  and  at  all  such  sad 
furniture  of  an  invalid's  life,  and  pic 
tures  the  day  when  the  homely,  affection 
ate  use  of  all  these  things  will  be  gone 
forever;  for  so  poignant  is  humanity 
that  it  sanctifies  with  endearing  associa 
tions  even  objects  in  themselves  so  pain 
ful  and  prosaic.  And  it  seems  to  Mar 
garet  that  when  that  day  comes  it  would 
be  most  natural  for  her  to  go  on  the 
same  journey  with  her  mother. 


1 6  Harper's  Novelettes 

For  who  shall  fill  for  her  her  mother's 
place  on  earth — and  what  occupation  will 
be  left  for  Margaret  when  her  "  beautiful 
old  raiKon  d'etre"  as  she  sometimes  calls 
her  mother,  has  entered  into  the  sleep 
of  the  blessed?  She  seldom  thinks  of 
that,  for  the  thought  is  too  lonely,  and, 
meanwhile,  she  uses  all  her  love  and  care 
to  make  this  earth  so  attractive  and  cozy 
that  the  beautiful  mother  -  spirit  who 
has  been  so  long  prepared  for  her  short 
journey  to  heaven  may  be  tempted  to 
linger  here  yet  a  little  while  longer. 
These  ministrations,  which  began  as  a 
kind  of  renunciation,  have  now  turned 
into  an  unselfish  selfishness.  Margaret 
began  by  feeling  herself  necessary  to  her 
mother;  now  her  mother  becomes  more 
and  more  necessary  to  Margaret.  Some 
times  when  she  leaves  her  alone  for  a 
few  moments  in  her  chair,  she  laughing 
ly  bends  over  and  says,  "  Promise  me 
that  you  won't  run  away  to  heaven  while 
my  back  is  turned." 

And  the  old  mother  smiles  one  of  those 
transfigured  smiles  which  seem  only  to 
light  up  the  faces  of  those  that  are  al 
ready  half  over  the  border  of  the  spirit 
ual  world. 

Winter  is,  of  course,  Margaret's  time 
of  chief  anxiety,  and  then  her  loving  ef- 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret      17 

forts  are  redoubled  to  detain  her  beloved 
spirit  in  an  inclement  world.  Each  win 
ter  passed  in  safety  seems  a  personal 
victory  over  death.  How  anxiously  she 
watches  for  the  first  sign  of  the  return 
ing  spring,  how  eagerly  she  brings  the 
news  of  early  blade  and  bud,  and  with 
the  first  violet  she  feels  that  the  danger 
is  over  for  another  year.  When  the 
spring  is  so  afire  that  she  is  able  to  fill 
her  mother's  lap  with  a  fragrant  heap  of 
crocus  and  daffodil,  she  dares  at  last  to 
laugh  and  say, 

"  Now  confess,  mother,  that  you  won't 
find  sweeter  flowers  even  in  heaven." 

And  when  the  thrush  is  on  the  ap 
ple  bough  outside  the  window,  Marga 
ret  will  sometimes  employ  the  same  gen 
tle  raillery. 

"  Do  you  think,  mother,"  she  will  say, 
"  that  an  angel  could  sing  sweeter  than 
that  thrush?" 

"You  seem  very  sure,  Margaret,  that 
I  am  going  to  heaven,"  the  old 
mother  will  sometimes  say,  with  one 
of  her  arch  old  smiles ;  "  but  do  you 
know  that  I  stole  two  peppermints 
yesterday  ?" 

"  You  did !"  says  Margaret. 

"  I  did  indeed !  and  they  have  been  on 

my  conscience  ever  since." 
2    D.G. 


1 8  Harper 's  Novelettes 

"  Really,  mother !  I  don't  know  what 
to  say,"  answers  Margaret.  "  I  had  no 
idea  that  you  are  so  wicked." 

Many  such  little  games  the  two  play 
together,  as  the  days  go  by;  and  often 
at  bedtime,  as  Margaret  tucks  her  mother 
into  bed,  she  asks  her: 

"Are  you  comfortable,  dear?  Do  you 
really  think  you  would  be  much  more 
comfortable  in  heaven?" 

Or  sometimes  she  will  draw  aside  the 
window-curtains  and  say: 

"  Look  at  the  stars,  mother.  .  .  .  Don't 
you  think  we  get  the  best  view  of  them 
down  here?" 

So  it  is  that  Margaret  persuades  her 
mother  to  delay  her  journey  a  little  while. 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine 

BY   ELIZABETH   JOBDAN 


KITTIE  JAMES  told  me  this  story 
about    her    sister    Josephine,  and 
when    she   saw   my   eye   light   up 
the  way  the  true  artist's  does  when  he 
hears  a  good  plot,  she  said  I  might  use 
it,   if  I  liked,   the  next  time  I   "prac 
tised  literature." 

I  don't  think  that  was  a  very  nice  way 
to  say  it,  especially  when  one  remembers 
that  Sister  Irmingarde  read  three  of  my 
stories  to  the  class  in  four  months;  and 
as  I  only  write  one  every  week,  you  can 
see  yourself  what  a  good  average  that  was. 
But  it  takes  noble  souls  to  be  humble  in 
the  presence  of  the  gifted,  and  enthusi 
astic  over  their  success,  so  only  two  of 
my  classmates  seemed  really  happy  when 
Sister  Irmingarde  read  my  third  story 
aloud.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  mention 
the  names  of  these  beautiful  natures, 
already  so  well  known  to  my  readers,  but 
I  will  do  it.  They  were  Maudie  Joyce 


20  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  Mabel  Blossom,  and  they  are  my 
dearest  friends  at  St.  Catharine's.  And 
some  day,  when  I  am  a  real  writer  and 
the  name  of  May  Iverson  shines  in  gold 
letters  on  the  tablets  of  fame,  I'll  write 
a  book  and  dedicate  it  to  them.  Then, 
indeed,  they  will  be  glad  they  knew  me 
in  my  schoolgirl  days,  and  recognized 
real  merit  when  they  saw  it,  and  did  not 
mind  the  queer  things  my  artistic  tem 
perament  often  makes  me  do.  Oh,  what 
a  slave  is  one  to  this  artistic,  emotional 
nature,  and  how  unhappy,  how  misunder 
stood!  I  don't  mean  that  I  am  un 
happy  all  the  time,  of  course,  but  I  have 
Moods.  And  when  I  have  them  life 
seems  so  hollow,  so  empty,  so  terrible! 
At  such  times  natures  that  do  not  under 
stand  me  are  apt  to  make  mistakes,  the 
way  Sister  Irmingarde  did  when  she 
thought  I  had  nervous  dyspepsia  and 
made  me  walk  three  miles  every  day, 
when  it  was  just  Soul  that  was  the  matter 
with  me.  Still,  I  must  admit  the  exercise 
helped  me.  It  is  so  soothing,  so  restful,  so 
calming  to  walk  on  dear  nature's  breast. 
Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel  Blossom  always 
know  the  minute  an  attack  of  artistic 
temperament  begins  in  me.  Then  they 
go  away  quietly  and  reverently,  and  I 
write  a  story  and  feel  better. 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine          21 

So  this  time  I  am  going  to  tell  about 
Kittie  James's  sister  Josephine.  In  the 
very  beginning  I  must  explain  that 
Josephine  James  used  to  be  a  pupil  at 
St.  Catharine's  herself,  ages  and  ages 
ago,  and  finally  she  graduated  and  left, 
and  began  to  go  into  society  and  look 
around  and  decide  what  her  life-work 
should  be.  That  was  long,  long  before 
our  time — as  much  as  ten  years,  I  should 
think,  and  poor  Josephine  must  be 
twenty  -  eight  or  twenty  -  nine  years  old 
now.  But  Kittie  says  she  is  just  as  nice 
as  she  can  be,  and  not  a  bit  poky,  and 
so  active  and  interested  in  life  you'd 
think  she  was  young.  Of  course  I  know 
such  things  can  be,  for  my  own  sister 
Grace,  Mrs.  George  E.  Verbeck,  is  per 
fectly  lovely  and  the  most  popular  wo 
man  in  the  society  of  our  city.  But 
Grace  is  married,  and  perhaps  that  makes 
a  difference.  It  is  said  that  love  keeps 
the  spirit  young.  However,  perhaps  I'd 
better  go  on  about  Josephine  and  not 
dwell  on  that.  Experienced  as  we  girls 
are,  and  drinking  of  life  in  deep 
draughts  though  we  do,  we  still  admit — 
Maudie,  Mabel,  and  I — that  we  do  not 
yet  know  much  about  love.  But  one  can 
not  know  everything  at  fifteen,  and,  as 
Mabel  Blossom  always  says,  "  there  is 


22  Harper's  Novelettes 

yet  time."  We  all  know  just  the  kind 
of  men  they're  going  to  be,  though. 
Mine  will  be  a  brave  young  officer,  of 
course,  for  a  general's  daughter  should 
not  marry  out  of  the  army,  and  he  will 
die  for  his  country,  leaving  me  with  a 
broken  heart.  Maudie  Joyce  says  hers 
must  be  a  man  who  will  rule  her  with  a 
rod  of  iron  and  break  her  will  and  win 
her  respect,  and  then  be  gentle  and  lov 
ing  and  tender.  And  Mabel  Blossom 
says  she's  perfectly  sure  hers  will  be  fat 
and  have  a  blond  mustache  and  laugh  a 
great  deal.  Once  she  said  maybe  none 
of  us  would  ever  get  any;  but  the  look 
Maudie  Joyce  and  I  turned  upon  her 
checked  her  thoughtless  words.  Life  is 
bitter  enough  as  it  is  without  thinking 
of  dreadful  things  in  the  future.  I  some 
times  fear  that  underneath  her  girlish 
gayety  Mabel  Blossom  conceals  a  morbid 
nature.  But  I  am  forgetting  Josephine 
James.  This  story  will  tell  why,  with  all 
her  advantages  of  wealth  and  education 
and  beauty,  she  remained  a  maiden  lady 
till  she  was  twenty-eight;  and  she  might 
have  kept  on,  too,  if  Kittie  had  not  taken 
matters  in  hand  and  settled  them  for  her. 
Kittie  says  Josephine  was  always  ro 
mantic  and  spent  long  hours  of  her 
young  life  in  girlish  reveries  and  dreams. 


Kiltie's  Sister  Josephine          23 

Of  course  that  isn't  the  way  Kittle  said 
it,  but  if  I  should  tell  this  story  in  her 
crude,  unformed  fashion,  you  wouldn't 
read  very  far.  What  Kittie  really  said 
was  that  Josephine  used  to  "  moon  around 
the  grounds  a  lot  and  bawl,  and  even 
try  to  write  poetry."  I  understand 
Josephine's  nature,  so  I  will  go  on  and 
tell  this  story  in  my  own  way,  but  you 
must  remember  that  some  of  the  credit 
belongs  to  Kittie  and  Mabel  Blossom; 
and  if  Sister  Irmingarde  reads  it  in 
class,  they  can  stand  right  up  with  me 
when  the  author  is  called  for. 

Well,  when  Josephine  James  graduated 
she  got  a  lot  of  prizes  and  things,  for  she 
was  a  clever  girl,  and  had  not  spent  all 
her  time  writing  poetry  and  thinking 
deep  thoughts  about  life.  She  realized 
the  priceless  advantages  of  a  broad  and 
thorough  education  and  of  association 
with  the  most  cultivated  minds.  That 
sentence  comes  out  of  our  prospectus. 
Then  she  went  home  and  went  out  a 
good  deal,  and  was  very  popular  and 
stopped  writing  poetry,  and  her  dear 
parents  began  to  feel  happy  and  hopeful 
about  her,  and  think  she  would  marry 
and  have  a  nice  family,  which  is  indeed 
woman's  highest,  noblest  mission  in  life. 
"But  Josephine  cherished  an  ideal, 


24  Harper's  Novelettes 

A  great  many  young  men  came  to  see 
her,  and  Kittie  liked  'one  of  them  very 
much  indeed — better  than  all  the  others. 
He  was  handsome,  and  he  laughed  and 
joked  a  good  deal,  and  always  brought 
Kittie  big  boxes  of  candy  and  called  her 
his  little  sister.  He  said  she  was  going 
to  be  that  in  the  end,  anyhow,  and  there 
was  no  use  waiting  to  give  her  the  title 
that  his  heart  dictated.  He  said  it  just 
that  way.  When  he  took  Josephine  out 
in  his  automobile  he'd  say,  "Let's  take 
the  kid,  too,"  and  they  would,  and  it  did 
not  take  Kittie  long  to  understand  how 
things  were  between  George  Morgan — 
for  that  was  indeed  his  name — and  her 
sister.  Little  do  grown-up  people  realize 
how  intelligent  are  the  minds  of  the 
young,  and  how  keen  and  penetrating 
their  youthful  gaze!  Clearly  do  I  recall 
some  things  that  happened  at  home,  and 
it  would  startle  papa  and  mamma  to 
know  I  know  them,  but  I  will  not  reveal 
them  here.  Once  I  would  have  done  so, 
in  the  beginning  of  my  art;  but  now  I 
have  learned  to  finish  one  story  before  I 
begin  another. 

Little  did  Mr.  Morgan  and  Josephine 
wot  that  every  time  she  refused  him 
Kittie's  young  heart  burned  beneath  its 
sense  of  wrong,  for  she  did  refuse  him 


Kfttie's  Sister  Josephine         25 

almost  every  time  they  went  out  to 
gether,  and  yet  she  kept  right  on  going. 
You  would  think  she  wouldn't,  but  wo 
men's  natures  are  indeed  inscrutable. 
Some  authors  would  stop  here  and  tell 
what  was  in  Josephine's  heart,  but  this 
is  not  that  kind  of  a  story.  Kittie  was 
only  twelve  then,  and  they  used  big  words 
and  talked  in  a  queer  way  they  thought 
she  would  not  understand;  but  she  did, 
every  time,  and  she  never  missed  a  single 
word  they  said.  Of  course  she  wasn't 
listening  exactly,  you  see,  because  they 
knew  she  was  there.  That  makes  it  dif 
ferent  and  quite  proper.  For  if  Kittie 
was  more  intelligent  than  her  elders  it 
was  not  the  poor  child's  fault. 

Things  went  on  like  that  and  got 
worse  and  worse,  and  they  had  been  going 
on  that  way  for  five  years.  One  day 
Kittie  was  playing  tennis  with  George 
at  the  Country  Club,  and  he  had  been 
very  kind  to  her,  and  all  of  a  sudden  Kit- 
tie  told  him  she  knew  all,  and  how  sorry 
she  was  for  him,  and  that  if  he  would 
wait  till  she  grew  up  she  would  marry 
him  herself.  The  poor  child  was  so 
young,  you  see,  that  she  did  not  know 
how  unmaidenly  this  was.  And  of  course 
at  St.  Catharine's  when  they  taught  us 
how  to  enter  and  leave  rooms  and  how  to 


26  Harper's  Novelettes 

act  in  society  and  at  the  table,  they 
didn't  think  to  tell  us  not  to  ask  young 
men  to  marry  us.  I  can  add  with  confi 
dence  that  Kittie  James  was  the  only  girl 
who  ever  did.  I  asked  the  rest  after 
wards,  and  they  were  deeply  shocked  at 
the  idea. 

Well,  anyhow,  Kittie  did  it,  and  she 
said  George  was  just  as  nice  as  he  could 
be.  He  told  her  he  had  "  never  listened 
to  a  more  alluring  proposition"  (she  re 
membered  just  the  words  he  used),  and 
that  she  was  "  a  little  trump  " ;  and  then 
he  said  he  feared,  alas !  it  was  impossible, 
as  even  his  strong  manhood  could  not 
face  the  prospect  of  the  long  and  drag 
ging  years  that  lay  between.  Besides,  he 
said,  his  heart  was  already  given,  and 
he  guessed  he'd  better  stick  to  Josephine, 
and  would  his  little  sister  help  him  to 
get  her?  Kittie  wiped  her  eyes  and  said 
she  would.  She  had  been  crying.  It 
must  indeed  be  a  bitter  experience  to 
have  one's  young  heart  spurned!  But 
George  took  her  into  the  club-house  and 
gave  her  tea  and  lots  of  English  muffins 
and  jam,  and  somehow  Kittie  cheered  up, 
for  she  couldn't  help  feeling  there  were 
still  some  things  in  life  that  were  nice. 

Of  course  after  that  she  wanted  dread 
fully  to  help  George,  but  there  didn't 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine         27 

seem  to  be  much  she  could  do.  Besides, 
she  had  to  go  right  back  to  school  in 
September,  and  being  a  studious  child,  I 
need  hardly  add  that  her  entire  mind  was 
then  given  to  her  studies.  When  she 
went  home  for  the  Christmas  holidays 
she  took  Mabel  Blossom  with  her.  Mabel 
was  more  than  a  year  older,  but  Kittie 
looked  up  to  her,  as  it  is  well  the  young 
should  do  to  us  older  girls.  Besides,  Kit- 
tie  had  had  her  thirteenth  birthday  in 
November,  and  she  was  letting  down  her 
skirts  a  little  and  beginning  to  think  of 
putting  up  her  hair.  She  said  when  she 
remembered  that  she  asked  George  to 
wait  till  she  grew  up  it  made  her  blush, 
so  you  see  she  was  developing  very  fast. 

As  I  said  before,  she  took  Mabel  Blos 
som  home  for  Christmas,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  James  were  lovely  to  her,  and  she 
had  a  beautiful  time.  But  Josephine 
was  the  best  of  all.  She  was  just  fine. 
Mabel  told  me  with  her  own  lips  that 
if  she  hadn't  seen  Josephine  James's 
name  on  the  catalogue  as  a  graduate  in 
'93,  she  never  would  have  believed  she 
was  so  old.  Josephine  took  the  two 
girls  to  matinees  and  gave  a  little  tea 
for  them,  and  George  Morgan  was  as 
nice  as  she  was.  He  was  always  bring 
ing  them  candy  and  violets,  exactly  as 


28  Harper's  Novelettes 

if  they  were  young  ladies,  and  he  treated 
them  both  with  the  greatest  respect,  and 
stopped  calling  them  the  kids  when  he 
found  they  didn't  like  it.  Mabel  got  as 
fond  of  him  as  Kittie  was,  and  they  were 
both  wild  to  help  him  to  get  Josephine 
to  marry  him;  but  she  wouldn't,  though 
Kittie  finally  talked  to  her  long  and 
seriously.  I  asked  Kittie  what  Josephine 
said  when  she  did  that,  and  she  con 
fessed  that  Josephine  had  laughed  so  she 
couldn't  say  anything.  That  hurt  the 
sensitive  child,  of  course,  but  grown-ups 
are  all  too  frequently  thoughtless  of  such 
things.  Had  Josephine  but  listened  to 
Kittie's  words  on  that  occasion,  it  would 
have  saved  Kittie  a  lot  of  trouble. 

Now  I  am  getting  to  the  exciting  part 
of  the  story.  I  am  always  so  glad  when  I 
get  to  that.  I  asked  Sister  Irmingarde 
why  one  couldn't  just  make  the  story 
out  of  the  exciting  part,  and  she  took  a 
good  deal  of  time  to  explain  why,  but 
she  did  not  convince  me ;  for  besides  hav 
ing  the  artistic  temperament  I  am 
strangely  logical  for  one  so  young.  Some 
day  I  shall  write  a  story  that  is  all  climax 
from  beginning  to  end.  That  will  show 
her !  But  at  present  I  must  write  accord 
ing  to  the  severe  and  cramping  rules 
which  she  and  literature  have  laid  down. 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine          29 

One  night  Mrs.  James  gave  a  large 
party  for  Josephine,  and  of  course  Mabel 
and  Kittie,  being  thirteen  and  fourteen, 
had  to  go  to  bed.  It  is  such  things  as 
this  that  embitter  the  lives  of  school 
girls.  But  they  were  allowed  to  go 
down  and  see  all  the  lights  and  flowers 
and  decorations  before  people  began  to 
come,  and  they  went  into  the  conserva 
tory  because  that  was  fixed  up  with  little 
nooks  and  things.  They  got  away  in 
and  off  in  a  kind  of  wing  of  it,  and  they 
talked  and  pretended  they  were  debutantes 
at  the  ball,  so  they  stayed  longer  than 
they  knew.  Then  they  heard  voices,  and 
they  looked  and  saw  Josephine  and  Mr. 
Morgan  sitting  by  the  fountain.  Before 
they  could  move  or  say  they  were  there, 
they  heard  him  say  this — Kittie  remem 
bers  just  what  it  was : 

"  I  have  spent  six  years  following  you, 
and  you've  treated  me  as  if  I  were  a 
dog  at  the  end  of  a  string.  This  thing 
must  end.  I  must  have  you,  or  I  must 
learn  to  live  without  you,  and  I  must 
know  now  which  it  is  to  be.  Jose 
phine,  you  must  give  me  my  final  an 
swer  to-night." 

Wasn't  it  embarrassing  for  Kittie  and 
Mabel?  They  did  not  want  to  listen, 
but  some  instinct  told  them  Josephine 


30  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  George  might  not  be  glad  to  see  them 
then,  so  they  crept  behind  a  lot  of  tall 
palms,  and  Mabel  put  her  fingers  in  her 
ears  so  she  wouldn't  hear.  Kittie  didn't. 
She  explained  to  me  afterwards  that  she 
thought  it  being  her  sister  made  things 
kind  of  different.  It  was  all  in  the  fam 
ily,  anyhow.  So  Kittie  heard  Josephine 
tell  Mr.  Morgan  that  the  reason  she  did 
not  marry  him  was  because  he  was  an 
idler  and  without  an  ambition  or  a  pur 
pose  in  life.  And  she  said  she  must 
respect  the  man  she  married  as  well  as 
love  him.  Then  George  jumped  up  quick 
ly  and  asked  if  she  loved  him,  and  she 
cried  and  said  she  did,  but  that  she  would 
never,  never  marry  him  until  he  did  some 
thing  to  win  her  admiration  and  prove 
he  was  a  man.  You  can  imagine  how 
exciting  it  was  for  Kittie  to  see  with  her 
own  innocent  eyes  how  grown-up  people 
manage  such  things.  She  said  she  was 
so  afraid  she'd  miss  something  that  she 
opened  them  so  wide  they  hurt  her  after 
wards.  But  she  didn't  miss  anything. 
She  saw  him  kiss  Josephine,  too,  and  then 
Josephine  got  up,  and  he  argued  and  tried 
to  make  her  change  her  mind,  and  she 
wouldn't,  and  finally  they  left  the  con 
servatory.  After  that  Kittie  and  Mabel 
crept  out  and  rushed  up-stairs. 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine          31 

The  next  morning  Kittle  turned  to 
Mabel  with  a  look  on  her  face  which 
Mabel  had  never  seen  there  before.  It 
was  grim  and  determined.  She  said  she 
had  a  plan  and  wanted  Mabel  to  help  her, 
and  not  ask  any  questions,  but  get  her 
skates  and  come  out.  Mabel  did,  and 
they  went  straight  to  George  Morgan's 
house,  which  was  only  a  few  blocks  away. 
He  was  very  rich  and  had  a  beautiful 
house.  An  English  butler  came  to  the 
door.  Mabel  said  she  was  so  frightened 
her  teeth  chattered,  but  he  smiled  when 
he  saw  Kittie,  and  said  yes,  Mr.  Morgan 
was  home  and  at  breakfast,  and  invited 
them  in.  When  George  came  in  he  had 
a  smoking- jacket  on,  and  looked  very  pale 
and  sad  and  romantic,  Mabel  thought, 
but  he  smiled,  too,  when  he  saw  them, 
and  shook  hands  and  asked  them  if  they 
had  breakfasted. 

Kittie  said  yes,  but  they  had  come 
to  ask  him  to  take  them  skating,  and  they 
were  all  ready  and  had  brought  their 
skates.  His  face  fell,  as  real  writers  say, 
and  he  hesitated  a  little,  but  at  last  he 
said  he'd  go,  and  he  excused  himself, 
just  as  if  they  had  been  grown  up,  and 
went  off  to  get  ready. 

When  they  were  left  alone  a  terrible 
doubt  assailed  Mabel,  and  she  asked  Kit- 


32  Harper's  Novelettes 

tie  if  she  was  going  to  ask  George  again 
to  marry  her.  Kittie  blushed  and  said 
she  was  not,  of  course,  and  that  she  knew 
better  now.  For  it  is  indeed  true  that  the 
human  heart  is  not  so  easily  turned 
from  its  dear  object.  We  know  that  if 
once  one  truly  loves  it  lasts  forever  and 
ever  and  ever,  and  then  one  dies  and  is 
buried  with  things  the  loved  one  wore. 

Kittie  said  she  had  a  plan  to  help 
George,  and  all  Mabel  had  to  do  was  to 
watch  and  keep  on  breathing.  Mabel  felt 
better  then,  and  said  she  guessed  she 
could  do  that.  George  came  back  all 
ready,  and  they  started  off.  Kittie  acted 
rather  dark  and  mysterious,  but  Mabel 
conversed  with  George  in  the  easy  and 
pleasant  fashion  young  men  love.  She 
told  him  all  about  school  and  how  bad 
she  was  in  mathematics;  and  he  said  he 
had  been  a  duffer  at  it  too,  but  that  he 
had  learned  to  shun  it  Vhile  there  was  yet 
time.  And  he  advised  her  very  earnestly 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Mabel 
didn't,  either,  after  she  came  back  to  St. 
Catharine's;  and  when  Sister  Irmingarde 
reproached  her,  Mabel  said  she  was  lean 
ing  on  the  judgment  of  a  strong  man, 
as  woman  should  do.  But  Sister  Irmin 
garde  made  her  go  on  with  the  arith 
metic  just  the  same. 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine         33 

By  and  by  they  came  to  the  river,  and 
it  was  so  early  not  many  people  were 
skating  there.  When  George  had  fast 
ened  on  their  skates— he  did  it  in  the 
nicest  way,  exactly  as  if  they  were  grown 
up — Kittie  looked  more  mysterious  than 
ever,  and  she  started  off  as  fast  as  she 
could  skate  toward  a  little  inlet  where 
there  was  no  one  at  all.  George  and 
Mabel  followed  her.  George  said  he 
didn't  know  whether  the  ice  was  smooth 
in  there,  but  Kittie  kept  right  on,  and 
George  did  not  say  any  more.  I  guess 
he  did  not  care  much  where  he  went.  I 
suppose  it  disappoints  a  man  when  he 
wants  to  marry  a  woman  and  she  won't. 
Now  that  I  am  beginning  to  study  deeply 
this  question  of  love,  many  things  are 
clear  to  me. 

Kittie  kept  far  ahead,  and  all  of  a  sud 
den  Mabel  saw  that  a  little  distance 
further  on,  and  just  ahead,  there  was  a 
big  black  hole  in  the  ice,  and  Kittie  was 
skating  straight  toward  it.  Mabel  tried 
to  scream,  but  she  says  the  sound  froze 
on  her  pallid  lips.  Then  George  saw  the 
hole,  too,  and  rushed  toward  Kittie,  and 
quicker  than  I  can  write  it  Kittie  went 
in  that  hole  and  down. 

Mabel  says  George  was  there  almost  as 
soon,  calling  to  Mabel  to  keep  back  out 


34  Harper's  Novelettes 

of  clanger.  Usually  when  people  have  to 
rescue  others,  especially  in  stories,  they 
call  to  some  one  to  bring  a  board,  and 
some  one  does,  and  it  is  easy.  But  very 
often  in  real  life  there  isn't  any  board  or 
any  one  to  bring  it,  and  this  was  indeed 
the  desperate  situation  that  confronted 
my  hero.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
plunge  in  after  Kittie,  and  he  plunged, 
skates  and  all.  Then  Mabel  heard  nini 
gasp  and  laugh  a  little,  and  he  called 
out:  "It's  all  right,  by  Jove!  The  water 
isn't  much  above  my  knees."  And  even 
as  he  spoke  Mabel  saw  Kittie  rise  in  the 
water  and  sort  of  hurl  herself  at  him 
and  pull  him  down  into  the  water,  head 
and  all.  When  they  came  up  they  were 
both  half  strangled,  and  Mabel  was  ter 
ribly  frightened;  for  she  thought  George 
was  mistaken  about  the  depth,  and  they 
would  both  drown  before  her  eyes;  and 
then  she  would  see  that  picture  all  her 
life,  as  they  do  in  stories,  and  her  hair 
would  turn  gray.  She  began  to  run  up 
and  down  on  the  ice  and  scream;  but 
even  as  she  did  so  she  heard  these  ex 
traordinary  words  come  from  between 
Kittie  James's  chattering  teeth: 
"Now  you  are  good  and  wet!" 
George  did  not  say  a  word.  He  con 
fessed  to  Mabel  afterwards  that  he 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine         35 

thought  poor  Kittle  had  lost  her  mind 
through  fear.  But  he  tried  the  ice  till 
he  found  a  place  that  would  hold  him, 
and  he  got  out  and  pulled  Kittie  out. 
As  soon  as  Kittie  was  out  she  opened  her 
mouth  and  uttered  more  remarkable  words. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "I'll  skate  till  we 
get  near  the  club-house.  Then  you  must 
pick  me  up  and  carry  me,  and  I'll  shut 
my  eyes  and  let  my  head  hang  down. 
And  Mabel  must  cry — good  and  hard. 
Then  you  must  send  for  Josephine  and 
let  her  see  how  you've  saved  the  life  of 
her  precious  little  sister." 

Mabel  said  she  was  sure  that  Kittie 
was  crazy,  and  next  she  thought  George 
was  crazy,  too.  For  he  bent  and 
stared  hard  into  Kittie's  eyes  for  a  min 
ute,  and  then  he  began  to  laugh,  and  he 
laughed  till  he  cried.  He  tried  to  speak, 
but  he  couldn't  at  first;  and  when  he  did 
the  words  came  out  between  his  shouts 
of  boyish  glee. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  you  young 
monkey,"  he  said,  "that  this  is  a  put- 
up  job?" 

Kittie  nodded  as  solemnly  as  a  fair 
young  girl  can  nod  when  her  clothes 
are  dripping  and  her  nose  is  blue  with 
cold.  When  she  did  that,  George  roared 
again;  then,  as  if  he  had  remembered 


36  Harper's  Novelettes 

something,  he  caught  her  hands  and  be 
gan  to  skate  very  fast  toward  the  club 
house.  He  was  a  thoughtful  young  man, 
you  see,  and  he  wanted  her  to  get  warm. 
Perhaps  he  wanted  to  get  warm,  too. 
Anyhow,  they  started  off,  and  as  they 
went,  Kittie  opened  still  further  the 
closed  flower  of  her  girlish  heart.  I 
heard  that  expression  once,  and  I've  al 
ways  wanted  to  get  it  into  one  of  my 
stories.  I  think  this  is  a  good  place. 

She  told  George  she  knew  the  hole  in 
the  ice,  and  that  it  wasn't  deep;  and  she 
said  she  had  done  it  all  to  make  Josephine 
admire  him  and  marry  him. 

"  She  will,  too,"  she  said.  "  Her  dear 
little  sister — the  only  one  she's  got."  And 
Kittie  went  on  to  say  what  a  terrible 
thing  it  would  have  been  if  she  had  died 
in  the  promise  of  her  young  life,  till 
Mabel  said  she  almost  felt  sure  herself 
that  George  had  saved  her.  But  George 
hesitated.  He  said  it  wasn't  "  a  square 
deal,"  whatever  that  means,  but  Kittie 
said  no  one  need  tell  any  lies.  She  had 
gone  into  the  hole  and  George  had  pulled 
her  out.  She  thought  they  needn't  ex 
plain  how  deep  it  was,  and  George  ad 
mitted  thoughtfully  that  "no  truly  lov 
ing  family  should  hunger  for  statistics 
at  such  a  moment."  Finally  he  said: 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine         37 

"By  Jove!  I'll  do  it.  'All's  fair  in  love 
and  war."  Then  he  asked  Mabel  if  she 
thought  she  could  "lend  intelligent  sup 
port  to  the  star  performers,"  and  she 
said  she  could.  So  George  picked  Kittie 
up  in  his  arms,  and  Mabel  cried — she  was 
so  excited  it  was  easy,  and  she  wanted 
to  do  it  all  the  time — and  the  sad  little 
procession  "homeward  wended  its  weary 
way,"  as  the  poet  says. 

Mabel  told  me  Kittie  did  her  part  like 
a  real  actress.  She  shut  her  eyes  and 
her  head  hung  over  George's  arm,  and 
her  long,  wet  braid  dripped  as  it  trailed 
behind  them.  George  laughed  to  himself 
every  few  minutes  till  they  got  near  the 
club-house.  Then  he  looked  very  sober, 
and  Mabel  Blossom  knew  her  cue  had 
come,  the  way  it  does  to  actresses,  and 
she  let  out  a  wail  that  almost  made  Kit- 
tie  sit  up.  It  was  'most  too  much  of  a 
one,  and  Mr.  Morgan  advised  her  to 
"  tone  it  down  a  little,"  because,  he  said, 
if  she  didn't  they'd  probably  have  Kittie 
buried  before  she  could  explain.  But  of 
course  Mabel  had  not  been  prepared  and 
had  not  had  any  practice.  She  muffled  her 
sobs  after  that,  and  they  sounded  lots 
better.  People  began  to  rush  from  the 
club-house,  and  get  blankets  and  whiskey, 
and  telephone  for  doctors  and  for  Kit- 


38  Harper's  Novelettes 

tie's  family,  and  things  got  so  exciting 
that  nobody  paid  any  attention  to  Mabel. 
All  she  had  to  do  was  to  mop  her  eyes 
occasionally  and  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for 
Josephine;  for  of  course,  being  an  ardent 
student  of  life,  like  Maudie  and  me,  she 
did  not  want  to  miss  what  came  next. 

Pretty  soon  a  horse  galloped  up,  all 
foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  he  was  pulled 
back  on  his  haunches,  and  Josephine 
and  Mr.  James  jumped  out  of  the  buggy 
and  rushed  in,  and  there  was  more  ex 
citement.  When  George  saw  them  com 
ing  he  turned  pale,  Mabel  said,  and  hur 
ried  off  to  change  his  clothes.  One  wo 
man  looked  after  him  and  said,  "  As 
modest  as  he  is  brave,"  and  cried  over  it. 
When  Josephine  and  Mr.  James  came  in 
there  was  more  excitement,  and  Kittie 
opened  one  eye  and  shut  it  again  right  off, 
and  the  doctor  said  she  was  all  right  except 
for  the  shock,  and  her  father  and  Jose 
phine  cried,  so  Mabel  didn't  have  to  any 
more.  She  was  glad,  too,  I  can  tell  you. 

They  put  Kittie  to  bed  in  a  room  at 
the  club,  for  the  doctor  said  she  was  such 
a  high-strung  child  it  would  be  wise  to 
keep  her  perfectly  quiet  for  a  few  hours 
and  take  precautions  against  pneumonia. 
Then  Josephine  went  around  asking  for 
Mr.  Morgan. 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine         39 

By  and  by  he  came  down,  in  dry  clothes 
but  looking  dreadfully  uncomfortable. 
Mabel  said  she  could  imagine  how  he  felt. 
Josephine  was  standing  by  the  open  fire 
when  he  entered  the  room,  and  no  one 
else  was  there  but  Mabel.  Josephine  went 
right  to  him  and  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck. 

"Dearest,  dearest!"  she  said.  "How 
can  I  ever  thank  you?"  Her  voice  was 
very  low,  but  Mabel  heard  it.  George 
said  right  off,  "  There  is  a  way."  That 
shows  how  quick  and  clever  he  is,  for 
some  men  might  not  think  of  it.  Then 
Mabel  Blossom  left  the  room,  with  slow, 
reluctant  feet,  and  went  up  -  stairs  to 
Kittle. 

That's  why  Mabel  has  just  gone  to 
Kittie's  home  for  a  few  days.  She  and 
Kittie  are  to  be  flower -maids  at  Jo 
sephine's  wedding.  I  hope  it  is  not  neces 
sary  for  me  to  explain  to  my  intelligent 
jreaders  that  her  husband  will  be  George 
Morgan.  Kittie  says  he  confessed  the 
whole  thing  to  Josephine,  and  she  for 
gave  him,  and  said  she  would  marry  him 
anyhow;  but  she  explained  that  she  only 
did  it  on  Kittie's  account.  She  said  she 
did  not  know  to  what  lengths  the  child 
might  go  next. 

So   my   young   friends   have   gone    to 


4O  Harper's  Novelettes 

mingle  in  scenes  of  worldly  gayety,  and 
I  sit  here  in  the  twilight  looking  at  the 
evening  star  and  writing  about  love. 
How  true  it  is  that  the  pen  is  mightier 
than  the  sword!  Gayety  is  well  in  its 
place,  but  the  soul  of  the  artist  finds  its 
happiness  in  work  and  solitude.  I  hope 
Josephine  will  realize,  though,  why  I  can 
not  describe  her  wedding.  Of  course  110 
artist  of  delicate  sensibilities  could  de 
scribe  a  wedding  when  she  hadn't  been 
asked  to  it. 

Poor  Josephine!  It  seems  very,  very 
sad  to  me  that  she  is  marrying  thus  late 
in  life  and  only  on  Kittie's  account.  Why, 
oh,  why  could  she  not  have  wed  when  she 
was  young  and  love  was  in  her  heart  1 


The  Wizard's  Touch 

BY  ALICE  BROWN: 

JEROME  WILMER  sat  in  the  gar 
den,  painting  in  a  background,  with 
the  carelessness  of  ease.  He  seem 
ed  to  be  dabbing  little  touches  at  the 
canvas,  as  a  spontaneous  kind  of  fun 
not  likely  to  result  in  anything  serious, 
save,  perhaps,  the  necessity  of  scrubbing 
them  off  afterwards,  like  a  too  adven 
turous  child.  Mary  Brinsley,  in  her 
lilac  print,  stood  a  few  paces  away,  the 
sun  on  her  hair,  and  watched  him. 

"Paris  is  very  becoming  to  you,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Wil- 
mer,  glancing  up,  and  then  beginning 
to  consider  her  so  particularly  that  she 
stepped  aside,  her  brows  knitted,  with 
an  admonishing, 

"Look  out!  you'll  get  me  into  the 
landscape." 

"You're  always  in  the  landscape. 
What  do  you  mean  about  Paris?" 


42  Harper's  Novelettes 

"You  look  so — so  travelled,  so  equal 
to  any  place,  and  Paris  in  particular  be 
cause  it's  the  finest." 

Other  people  also  had  said  that,  in 
their  various  ways.  He  had  the  distinc 
tion  set  by  nature  upon  a  muscular  body 
and  a  rather  small  head,  well  poised.  His 
hair,  now  turning  gray,  grew  delightfully 
about  the  temples,  and  though  it  was 
brushed  back  in  the  style  of  a  man  who 
never  looks  at  himself  twice  when  once 
will  do,  it  had  a  way  of  seeming  entirely 
right.  His  brows  were  firm,  his  mouth 
determined,  and  the  close  pointed  beard 
brought  his  face  to  a  delicate  finish. 
Even  his  clothes,  of  the  kind  that  never 
look  new,  had  fallen  into  lines  of  easy  use. 

"  You  needn't  guy  me,"  he  said,  and 
went  on  painting.  But  he  flashed  his 
sudden  smile  at  her.  "  Isn't  New  Eng 
land  becoming  to  me,  too?" 

"Yes,  for  the  summer.  It's  over 
powered.  In  the  winter  Aunt  Celia  calls 
you  '  Jerry  Wilmer.'  She's  quite  topping 
then.  But  the  minute  you  appear  with 
European  labels  on  your  trunks  and  that 
air  of  speaking  foreign  lingo,  she  gives 
out  completely.  Every  time  she  sees 
your  name  in  the  paper  she  forgets  you 
went  to  school  at  the  Academy  and  built 
the  fires.  She  calls  you  '  our  boarder ' 


The  Wizard's  Touch  43 

then,  for  as  much  as  a  week  and  a  half." 

"  Quit  it,  Mary,"  said  he,  smiling  at 
her  again. 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  yet  without  turn 
ing,  "  I  must  go  and  weed  a  while." 

"  No,"  put  in  Wilmer,  innocently ;  "  he 
won't  be  over  yet.  He  had  a  big  mail. 
I  brought  it  to  him." 

Mary  blushed,  and  made  as  if  to  go. 
She  was  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  well 
poised,  and  sweet  through  wholesomeness. 
Her  face  had  been  cut  on  a  regular  pat 
tern,  and  then  some  natural  influence 
had  touched  it  up  beguilingly  with  con 
tradictions.  She  swung  back,  after  her 
one  tentative  step,  and  sobered. 

"  How  do  you  think  he  is  looking  ?" 
she  asked. 

"Prime." 

"  Not  so—" 

"Not  so  morbid  as  when  I  was  here 
last  summer,"  he  helped  her  out.  "  Not 
by  any  means.  Are  you  going  to  marry 
him,  Mary?"  The  question  had  only  a 
civil  emphasis,  but  a  warmer  tone  in 
formed  it.  Mary  grew  pink  under  the 
morning  light,  and  Jerome  went  on: 
"  Yes,  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  talk 
about  it.  I  don't  travel  three  thousand 
miles  every  summer  to  ask  you  to  marry 
me  without  earning  some  claim  to  frank- 


44  Harper's  Novelettes 

ness.  I  mentioned  that  to  Marshby  him 
self.  We  met  at  the  station,  you  remem 
ber,  the  day  I  came.  We  walked  down 
together.  He  spoke  about  my  sketching, 
and  I  told  him  I  had  come  on  my  an 
nual  pilgrimage,  to  ask  Mary  Brinsley  to 
marry  me." 

"Jerome!" 

"Yes,  I  did.  This  is  my  tenth  pil 
grimage.  Mary,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mary,  softly,  but  as  if  she 
liked  him  very  much.  "  No,  Jerome." 

Wilmer  squeezed  a  tube  on  his  pal 
ette  and  regarded  the  color  frowningly. 
"  Might  as  well,  Mary,"  said  he.  "  You'd 
have  an  awfully  good  time  in  Paris." 

She  was  perfectly  still,  watching  him, 
and  he  went  on : 

"  Now  you're  thinking  if  Marshby  gets 
the  consulate  you'll  be  across  the  water 
anyway,  and  you  could  run  down  to  Paris 
and  see  the  sights.  But  it  wouldn't  be 
the  same  thing.  It's  Marshby  you  like, 
but  you'd  have  a  better  time  with  me." 

"  It's  a  foregone  conclusion  that  the 
consulship  will  be  offered  him,"  said 
Mary.  Her  eyes  were  now  on  the  path 
leading  through  the  garden  and  over  the 
wall  to  the  neighboring  house  where 
Marshby  lived. 

"  Then  you  will  marry  and  go  with  him. 


The  Wizard's  Touch  45 

Ah,  well,  that's  finished.  I  needn't  come 
another  summer.  When  you  are  in  Paris, 
I  can  show  you  the  boulevards  and  cafes." 

"It  is  more  than  probable  he  won't 
accept  the  consulship." 

"Why?"  He  held  his  palette  arrested 
in  mid-air  and  stared  at  her. 

"  He  is  doubtful  of  himself — doubtful 
whether  he  is  equal  to  so  responsible 
a  place." 

"  Bah !  it's  not  an  embassy." 

"No;  but  he  fancies  he  has  not  the 
address,  the  social  gifts — in  fact,  he 
shrinks  from  it."  Her  face  had  taken 
on  a  soft  distress;  her  eyes  appealed  to 
him.  She  seemed  to  be  confessing,  for 
the  other  man,  something  that  might 
well  be  misunderstood.  Jerome,  ignoring 
the  flag  of  her  discomfort,  went  on  paint 
ing,  to  give  her  room  for  confidence. 

"  Is  it  that  old  plague-spot  ?"  he  asked. 
"  Just  what  aspect  does  it  bear  to  him  ? 
Why  not  talk  freely  about  it?" 

"  It  is  the  old  remorse.  He  misunder 
stood  his  brother  when  they  two  were  left 
alone  in  the  world.  He  forced  the  boy  out 
of  evil  associations  when  he  ought  to  have 
led  him.  You  know  the  rest  of  it.  The 
boy  was  desperate.  He  killed  himself." 

"  When  he  was  drunk.  Marshby  was 
n't  responsible." 


46  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  No,  not  directly.  But  you  know  that 
kind  of  mind.  It  follows  hidden  causes. 
That's  why  his  essays  are  so  good.  Any 
way,  it  has  crippled  him.  It  came  when 
he  was  too  young,  and  it  marked  him  for 
life.  He  has  an  inveterate  self -distrust." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Wilmer,  including  the 
summer  landscape  in  a  wave  of  his  brush, 
"  give  up  the  consulship.  Let  him  give  it 
up.  It  isn't  as  if  he  hadn't  a  roof.  Set 
tle  down  in  his  house  there,  you  two,  and 
let  him  write  his  essays,  and  you — just 
be  happy." 

She  ignored  her  own  part  in  the 
prophecy  completely  and  finally.  "It 
isn't  the  consulship  as  the  consulship," 
she  responded.  "  It  is  the  life  abroad  I 
want  for  him.  It  would  give  him — well, 
it  would  give  him  what  it  has  given  you. 
His  work  would  show  it."  She  spoke 
hotly,  and  at  once  Jerome  saw  himself 
envied  for  his  brilliant  cosmopolitan  life, 
the  bounty  of  his  success  fairly  coveted 
for  the  other  man.  It  gave  him  a  curious 
pang.  He  felt,  somehow,  impoverished, 
and  drew  his  breath  more  meagrely.  But 
the  actual  thought  in  his  mind  grew  too 
big  to  be  suppressed,  and  he  stayed  his 
hand  to  look  at  her. 

"  That's  not  all,"  he  said. 

"All  what?" 


The  Wizard's  Touch  47 

"  That's  not  the  main  reason  why  you 
want  him  to  go.  You  think  if  he  really 
asserted  himself,  really  knocked  down  the 
spectre  of  his  old  distrust  and  stamped 
on  it,  he  would  be  a  different  man.  If 
he  had  once  proved  himself,  as  we  say  of 
younger  chaps,  he  could  go  on  proving." 

"  No,"  she  declared,  in  nervous  loyalty. 
She  was  like  a  bird  fluttering  to  save 
her  nest.  "  No !  You  are  wrong.  I 
ought  not  to  have  talked  about  him  at 
all.  I  shouldn't  to  anybody  else.  Only, 
you  are  so  kind." 

"It's  easy  to  be  kind,"  said  Jerome, 
gently,  "  when  there's  nothing  else  left 
us." 

She  stood  wilfully  swaying  a  branch 
of  the  tendrilled  arbor,  and,  he  subtly 
felt,  so  dissatisfied  with  herself  for  her 
temporary  disloyalty  that  she  felt  alien 
to  them  both:  Marshby  because  she  had 
wronged  him  by  admitting  another  man 
to  this  intimate  knowledge  of  him,  and 
the  other  man  for  being  her  accomplice. 

"Don't  be  sorry,"  he  said,  softly. 
"  You  haven't  been  naughty." 

But  she  had  swung  round  to  some 
comprehension  of  what  he  had  a  right 
to  feel. 

"It  makes  one  selfish,"  she  said,  "to 
want — to  want  things  to  come  out  right." 


48  Harper's  Novelettes 

"I  know.  Well,  can't  we  make  them 
come  out  right?  He  is  sure  of  the  con 
sulship  ?" 

"  Practically." 

"You  want  to  be  assured  of  his 
taking  it." 

She  did  not  answer ;  but  her  face  light 
ed,  as  if  to  a  new  appeal.  Jerome  fol 
lowed  her  look  along  the  path.  Marshby 
himself  was  coming.  He  was  no  weak 
ling.  He  swung  along  easily  with  the 
stride  of  a  man  accustomed  to  using 
his  body  well.  He  had  not,  perhaps,  the 
urban  air,  and  yet  there  was  nothing 
about  him  which  would  not  have^  re 
sponded  at  once  to  a  more  exacting 
civilization.  Jerome  knew  his  face, — 
knew  it  from  their  college  days  together 
and  through  these  annual  visits  of  his 
own;  but  now,  as  Marshby  approached, 
the  artist  rated  him  not  so  much  by  the 
friendly  as  the  professional  eye.  He  saw 
a  man  who  looked  the  scholar  and  the 
gentleman,  keen  though  not  imperious  of 
glance.  His  visage,  mature  even  for  its 
years,  had  suffered  more  from  emotion 
than  from  deeds  or  the  assaults  of  for 
tune.  Marshby  had  lived  the  life  of 
thought,  and,  exaggerating  action,  had 
failed  to  fit  himself  to  any  form  of  it. 
Wilmer  glanced  at  his  hands,  too,  as  they 


The  Wizard's  Touch  49 

swung  with  his  walk,  and  then  remem 
bered  that  the  professional  eye  had  al 
ready  noted  them  and  laid  their  lines 
away  for  some  suggestive  use.  As  he 
looked,  Marshby  stopped  in  his  approach, 
caught  by  the  singularity  of  a  gnarled 
tree  limb.  It  awoke  in  him  a  cognizance 
of  nature's  processes,  and  his  face  lighted 
with  the  pleasure  of  it. 

"  So  you  won't  marry  mo  ?"  asked  Wil- 
mer,  softly,  in  that  pause. 

"Don't!"  said  Mary. 

"  Why  not,  when  you  won't  tell  whether 
you're  engaged  to  him  or  not?  Why  not, 
anyway?  If  I  were  sure  you'd  be  hap 
pier  with  me,  I'd  snatch  you  out  of  his 
very  maw.  Yes,  I  would.  Are  you  sure 
you  like  him,  Mary?" 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  for  Marshby 
had  started  again.  Jerome  got  the  look 
in  her  face,  and  smiled  a  little,  sadly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you're  sure." 

Mary  immediately  felt  unable  to  en 
counter  them  together.  She  gave  Marshby 
a  good-morning,  and,  to  his  bewilder 
ment,  made  some  excuse  about  her  weed 
ing  and  flitted  past  him  on  the  path. 
His  eyes  followed  her,  and  when  they 
came  back  to  Wilmer  the  artist  nod 
ded  brightly. 

"  I've  just  asked  her,"  he  said. 

4      D.G 


50  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Asked  her?"  Marshby  was  about  to 
pass  him,  pulling  out  his  glasses  and 
at  the  same  time  peering  at  the  pic 
ture  with  the  impatience  of  his  near 
sighted  look. 

"There,  don't  you  do  that!"  cried 
Jerome,  stopping,  with  his  brush  in  air. 
"  Don't  you  come  round  and  stare  over 
my  shoulder.  It  makes  me  nervous 
as  the  devil.  Step  back  there — there  by 
that  mullein.  So!  IVe  got  to  face  my 
protagonist.  Yes,  I've  been  asking  her 
to  marry  me." 

Marshby  stiffened.  His  head  went  up, 
his  jaw  tightened.  He  looked  the  jealous 
ire  of  the  male. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  stand  here 
for?"  he  asked,  irritably. 

"But  she  refused  me,"  said  Wilmer, 
cheerfully.  "  Stand  still,  that's  a  good 
fellow.  I'm  using  you." 

Marshby  had  by  an  effort  pulled  him 
self  together.  He  dismissed  Mary  from 
his  mind,  as  he  wished  to  drive  her  from 
the  other  man's  speech. 

"  I've  been  reading  the  morning  paper 
on  your  exhibition,"  he  said,  bringing  out 
the  journal  from  his  pocket.  "  They 
can't  say  enough  about  you." 

"  Oh,  can't  they!  Well,  the  better  for 
me.  What  are  they  pleased  to  discover  ?" 


The  Wizard's  Touch  51 

"  They  say  you  see  round  corners  and 
through  deal  boards.  Listen."  He  struck 
open  the  paper  and  read :  " '  A  man  with 
a  hidden  crime  upon  his  soul  will  do  well 
to  elude  this  greatest  of  modern  magi 
cians.  The  man  with  a  secret  tells  it 
the  instant  he  sits  down  before  Jerome 
Wilmer.  Winner  does  not  paint  faces, 
brows,  hands.  He  paints  hopes,  fears, 
and  longings.  If  we  could,  in  our  turn, 
get  to  the  heart  of  his  mystery!  If  we 
could  learn  whether  he  says  to  himself: 
"I  see  hate  in  'that  face,  hypocrisy, 
greed.  I  will  paint  them.  That  man  is 
not  man,  but  cur.  He  shall  fawn  on  my 
canvas."  Or  does  he  paint  through  a 
kind  of  inspired  carelessness,  and  as  the 
line  obeys  the  eye  and  hand,  so  does  the 
emotion  live  in  the  line  ?' " 

"  Oh,  gammon !"  snapped  Wilmer. 

"Well,  do  you?"  said  Marshby,  toss 
ing  the  paper  to  the  little  table  where 
Mary's  work-box  stood. 

"Do  I  what?  Spy  and  then  paint,  or 
paint  and  find  I've  spied?  Oh,  I  guess 
I  plug  along  like  any  other  decent  work 
man.  When  it  conies  to  that,  how  do  you 
write  your  essays  ?" 

"I!  Oh!  That's  another  pair  of 
sleeves.  Your  work  is  colossal.  I'm  still 
on  cherry-stones," 


52  Harpers  Novelettes 

"Well,"  said  Wilmer,  with  slow  in- 
cisiveness,  "you've  accomplished  one  thing 
I'd  sell  my  name  for.  You've  got  Mary 
Brinsley  bound  to  you  so  fast  that  neither 
lure  nor  lash  can  stir  her.  I've  tried  it — 
tried  Paris  even,  the  crudest  bribe  there 
is.  No  good !  She  won't  have  me." 

At  her  name,  Marshby  straightened 
again,  and  there  was  fire  in  his  eye. 
Wilmer,  sketching  him  in,  seemed  to  gain 
distinct  impulse  from  the  pose,  and 
worked  the  faster. 

"Don't  move,"  he  ordered.  "There, 
that's  right.  So,  you  see,  you're  the  suc 
cessful  chap.  I'm  the  failure.  She  won't 
have  me."  There  was  such  feeling  in 
his  tone  that  Marshby's  expression  soft 
ened  comprehendingly.  He  understood  a 
pain  that  prompted  even  such  a  man  to 
rash  avowal. 

"  I  don't  believe  we'd  better  speak  of 
her,"  he  said,  in  awkward  kindliness. 

"I  want  to,"  returned  Wilmer.  "I 
want  to  tell  you  how  lucky  you  are." 

Again  that  shade  of  introspective  bit 
terness  clouded  Marshby's  face.  "Yes," 
said  he,  involuntarily.  "  But  how  about 
her?  Is  she  lucky?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Jerome,  steadily.  "  She's 
got  what  she  wants.  She  won't  worship 
you  any  the  less  because  you  don't  wor- 


The  Wizard's  Touch  53 

ship  yourself.  That's  the  mad  way  they 
have — women.  It's  an  awful  challenge. 
You've  got  a  fight  before  you,  if  you 
don't  refuse  it." 

"God!"  groaned  Marshby  to  himself, 
"  it  is  a  fight.  I  can't  refuse  it." 

Wilmer  put  his  question  without 
mercy.  "  Do  you  want  to?" 

"  I  want  her  to  be  happy,"  said  Marsh 
by,  with  a  simple  humility  afar  from 
cowardice.  "I  want  her  to  be  safe.  I 
don't  see  how  anybody  could  be  safe — 
with  me." 

"Well,"  pursued  Wilmer,  recklessly, 
"would  she  be  safe  with  me?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  Marshby,  keeping 
an  unblemished  dignity.  "  I  have  thought 
that  for  a  good  many  years." 

"But  not  happy?" 

"No,  not  happy.  She  would —  We 
have  been  together  so  long." 

"Yes,  she'd  miss  you.  She'd  die  of 
homesickness.  Well!"  He  sat  contem 
plating  Marshby  with  his  professional 
stare;  but  really  his  mind  was  opened 
for  the  first  time  to  the  full  reason  for 
Mary's  unchanging  love.  Marshby  stood 
there  so  quiet,  so  oblivious  of  himself 
in  comparison  with  unseen  things,  so 
much  a  man  from  head  to  foot,  that  he 
justified  the  woman's  loyal  passion  as* 


54  Harper's  Novelettes 

nothing  had  before.  "  Shall  you  accept 
the  consulate?"  Wilmer  asked,  abruptly. 

Brought  face  to  face  with  fact,  Marsh- 
by's  pose  slackened.  He  drooped  per 
ceptibly.  "  Probably  not,"  he  said.  "  No, 
decidedly  not." 

Wilmer  swore  under  his  breath,  and 
sat,  brows  bent,  marvelling  at  the  change 
in  him.  The  man's  infirmity  of  will  had 
blighted  him.  He  was  so  truly  another 
creature  that  not  even  a  woman's  un 
reasoning  championship  could  pull  him 
into  shape  again. 

Mary  Brinsley  came  swiftly  down  the 
path,  trowel  in  one  hand  and  her  basket 
of  weeds  in  the  other.  Wilmer  wondered 
if  she  had  been  glancing  up  from  some 
flowery  screen  and  read  the  story  of 
that  altered  posture.  She  looked  sharply 
anxious,  like  a  mother  whose  child  is 
threatened.  Jerome  shrewdly  knew  that 
Marshby's  telltale  attitude  was  no  un 
familiar  one. 

"What  have  you  been  saying?"  she 
asked,  in  laughing  challenge,  yet  with  a 
note  of  anxiety  underneath. 

"I'm  painting  him  in,"  said  Wilmer; 
but  as  she  came  toward  him  he  turned 
the  canvas  dexterously.  "No,"  said  he, 
"no.  I've  got  my  idea  from  this.  To 
morrow  Marshby's  going  to  sit." 


The  Wizard's  Touch  55 

That  was  all  he  would  say,  and  Mary 
put  it  aside  as  one  of  his  pleasantries 
made  to  fit  the  hour.  But  next  day 
he  set  up  a  big  canvas  in  the  barn  that 
served  him  as  workroom,  and  summoned 
Marshby  from  his  books.  He  came 
dressed  exactly  right,  in  his  every-day 
clothes  that  had  comfortable  wrinkles  in 
them,  and  easily  took  his  pose.  For  all 
his  concern  over  the  inefficiency  of  hia 
life,  as  a  life,  he  was  entirely  without 
self-consciousness  in  his  personal  habit. 
Jerome  liked  that,  and  began  to  like 
him  better  as  he  knew  him  more.  A 
strange  illuminative  process  went  on  in 
his  mind  toward  the  man  as  Mary  saw 
him,  and  more  and  more  he  nursed  a 
fretful  sympathy  with  her  desire  to  see 
Marshby  tuned  up  to  some  pitch  that 
should  make  him  livable  to  himself.  It 
seemed  a  cruelty  of  nature  that  any  man 
should  so  scorn  his  own  company  and  yet 
be  forced  to  keep  it  through  an  allotted 
span.  In  that  sitting  Marshby  was  at 
first  serious  and  absent-minded.  Though 
his  body  was  obediently  there,  the  spirit 
seemed  to  be  busy  somewhere  else. 

"Head  up!"  cried  Jerome  at  last, 
brutally.  "Heavens,  man,  don't  skulk!" 

Marshby  straightened  under  the  blow. 
It  hit  harder,  as  Jerome  meant  it  should, 


56  Harper's  Novelettes 

than  any  verbal  rallying.  It  sent  the 
man  back  over  his  own  life  to  the  first 
stumble  in  it. 

"I  want  you  to  look  as  if  you  heard 
drums  and  fife,"  Jerome  explained,  with 
one  of  his  quick  smiles,  that  always  wiped 
out  former  injury. 

But  the  flush  was  not  yet  out  of 
Marshby's  face,  and  he  answered,  bitter 
ly,  "  I  might  run." 

"  I  don't  mind  your  looking  as  if 
you'd  like  to  run  and  knew  you  couldn't," 
said  Jerome,  dashing  in  strokes  now  in 
a  happy  certainty. 

"Why  couldn't  I?"  asked  Marshby, 
still  from  that  abiding  scorn  of  his 
own  ways. 

"  Because  you  can't,  that's  all.  Partly 
because  you  get  the  habit  of  facing  the 
music.  I  should  like — "  Wilmer  had 
an  unconsidered  way  of  entertaining  his 
sitters,  without  much  expenditure  to 
himself;  he  pursued  a  fantastic  habit  of 
talk  to  keep  their  blood  moving,  and  did 
it  with  the  eye  of  the  mind  unswervingly 
on  his  work.  "  If  I  were  you,  I'd  do  it. 
I'd  write  an  essay  on  the  muscular  habit 
of  courage.  Your  coward  is  born  weak- 
kneed.  He  shouldn't  spill  himself  all 
over  the  place  trying  to  put  on  the 
spiritual  make-up  of  a  hero.  He  must 


The  Wizard's  Touch  57 

simply  strengthen  his  knees.  When 
they'll  take  him  anywhere  he  requests, 
without  buckling-,  he  wakes  up  and  finds 
himself  a  field-marshal.  Voila!" 

"It  isn't  bad,"  said  Marshby,  uncon 
sciously  straightening.  "  Go  ahead,  Je 
rome.  Turn  us  all  into  field-marshals." 

"  Not  all,"  objected  Wilmer,  seeming  to 
dash  his  brush  at  the  canvas  with  the 
large  carelessness  that  promised  his  best 
work.  "  The  jobs  wouldn't  go  round. 
But  I  don't  feel  the  worse  for  it  when  I 
see  the  recruity  stepping  out,  promotion 
in  his  eye." 

After  the  sitting,  Wilmer  went  yawn 
ing  forward,  and  with  a  hand  on  Marsh- 
by's  shoulder,  took  him  to  the  door. 

"Can't  let  you  look  at  the  thing,"  he 
said,  as  Marshby  gave  one  backward 
glance.  "That's  against  the  code.  Till 
it's  done,  no  eye  touches  it  but  mine  and 
the  light  of  heaven." 

Marshby  had  no  curiosity.  He  smiled, 
and  thereafter  let  the  picture  alone,  even 
to  the  extent  of  interested  speculation. 
Mary  had  scrupulously  absented  herself 
from  that  first  sitting;  but  after  it  was 
over  and  Marshby  had  gone  home,  Wil 
mer  found  her  in  the  garden,  under  an 
apple-tree,  shelling  pease.  He  lay  down 
on  the  ground,  at  a  little  distance,  and 


58  Harper's  Novelettes 

watched  her.  He  noted  the  quick,  capable 
turn  of  her  wrist  and  the  dexterous  mo 
tion  of  the  brown  hands  as  they  snapped 
out  the  pease,  and  he  thought  how  emi 
nently  sweet  and  comfortable  it  would  be 
to  take  this  bit  of  his  youth  back  to 
France  with  him,  or  even  to  give  up 
France  and  grow  old  with  her  at  home. 

"  Mary,"  said  he,  "  I  sha'n't  paint  any 
picture  of  you  this  summer." 

Mary  laughed,  and  brushed  back  a  yel 
low  lock  with  the  back  of  her  hand. 
"  No,"  said  she,  "  I  suppose  not.  Aunt 
Celia  spoke  of  it  yesterday.  She  told 
me  the  reason." 

"What  is  Aunt  Celia's  most  excel 
lent  theory?" 

"  She  said  I'm  not  so  likely  as  I  used 
to  be." 

"  No,"  said  Jerome,  not  answering 
her  smile  in  the  community  of  mirth 
they  always  had  over  Aunt  Celia's  simple 
speech.  He  rolled  over  on  the  grass  and 
began  to  make  a  dandelion  curl.  "  No, 
that's  not  it.  You're  a  good  deal  likelier 
than  you  used  to  be.  You're  all  possi 
bilities  now.  I  could  make  a  Madonna 
out  of  you,  quick  as  a  wink.  No,  it's 
because  I've  decided  to  paint  Marsh- 
by  instead." 

Mary's  hands   stilled  themselves,   and 


The  Wizard's  Tcwch  59 

she  looked  at  him  anxiously.  "  Why  are 
you  doing  that?"  she  asked. 

"  Don't  you  want  the  picture  ?" 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"Give  it  to  you,  I  guess.  For  a  wed 
ding-present,  Mary." 

"  You  mustn't  say  those  things,"  said 
Mary,  gravely.  She  went  on  working, 
but  her  face  was  serious, 

"It's  queer,  isn't  it,"  remarked  Wil- 
mer,  after  a  pause,  "this  notion  you've 
got  that  Marshby's  the  only  one  that 
could  possibly  do?  I  began  asking  you 
first." 

"Please!"  said  Mary.  Her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  That  was  rare  for  her, 
and  Wilmer  saw  it  meant  a  shaken  poise. 
She  was  less  certain  to-day  of  her  own 
fate.  It  made  her  more  responsively  ten 
der  toward  his.  He  sat  up  and  looked 
at  her. 

"No,"  he  said.  "No.  I  won't  ask 
you  again.  I  never  meant  to.  Only  I 
have  to  speak  of  it  once  in  a  while.  We 
should  have  such  a  tremendously  good 
time  together." 

"We  have  a  tremendously  good  time 
now,"  said  Mary,  the  smile  coming  while 
she  again  put  up  the  back  of  her  hand 
and  brushed  her  eyes.  "When  you're 
good." 


60  Harper's  Novelettes 

"When  I  help  all  the  other  little  boys 
at  the  table,  and  don't  look  at  the  nice 
heart-shaped  cake  I  want  myself?  It's 
frosted,  and  got  little  pink  things  all 
over  the  top.  There!  don't  drop  the  cor 
ners  of  your  mouth.  If  I  were  asked 
what  kind  of  a  world  I'd  like  to  live  in, 
I'd  say  one  where  the  corners  of  Mary't* 
mouth  keep  quirked  up  all  the  time. 
Let's  talk  about  Marshby's  picture.  It's 
going  to  be  your  Marshby." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Not  Marshby's  Marshby — yours." 

"  You're  not  going  to  play  some  dread 
ful  joke  on  him  ?"  Her  eyes  were  blazing 
under  knotted  brows. 

"  Mary !"  Wilmer  spoke  gently,  and 
though  the  tone  recalled  her,  she  could 
not  forbear  at  once,  in  her  hurt  pride 
and  loyalty. 

"  You're  not  going  to  put  him  into  any 
masquerade? — to  make  him  anything  but 
what  he  is?" 

"  Mary,  don't  you  think  that's  a  little 
hard  on  an  old  chum  ?" 

"  I  can't  help  it."  Her  cheeks  were  hot, 
though  now  it  was  with  shame.  "  Yes, 
I  am  mean,  jealous,  envious.  I  see  you 
with  everything  at  your  feet — " 

"Not  quite  everything,"  said  Jerome. 
"  I  know  it  makes  you  hate  me." 


The  Wizard's  Tcmch  61 

"No!  no!"  The  real  woman  had 
awakened  in  her,  and  she  turned  to  him 
in  a  whole-hearted  honesty.  "  Only,  they 
say  you  do  such  wizard  things  when  you. 
paint.  I  never  saw  any  of  your  pictures, 
you  know,  except  the  ones  you  did  of  me. 
And  they're  not  me.  They're  lovely — 
angels  with  women's  clothes  on.  Aunt 
Celia  says  if  I  looked  like  that  I'd  carry 
all  before  me.  But,  you  see,  you've  al 
ways  been — partial  to  me." 

"And  you  think  I'm  not  partial  to 
Marshby?" 

"  It  isn't  that.  It's  only  that  they  say 
you  look  inside  people  and  drag  out 
what  is  there.  And  inside  him — oh,  you'd 
see  his  hatred  of  himself!"  The  tears 
were  rolling  unregarded  down  her  face. 

"  This  is  dreadful,"  said  Wilmer,  chief 
ly  to  himself.  "  Dreadful." 

"There!"  said  Mary,  drearily,  empty 
ing  the  pods  from  her  apron  into  the 
basket  at  her  side.  "  I  suppose  I've  done 
it  now.  I've  spoiled  the  picture." 

"No,"  returned  Jerome,  thoughtfully, 
"  you  haven't  spoiled  the  picture.  Eeally 
I  began  it  with  a  very  definite  concep 
tion  of  what  I  was  going  to  do.  It  will 
be  done  in  that  way  or  not  at  all." 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Mary,  hum 
bly.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  act  like  this." 


62  Harper's  Novelettes 

"No," — "he  spoke  out  of  a  maze  of  re 
flection,  not  looking  at  her.  "You  have 
an  idea  he's  under  the  microscope  with 
me.  It  makes  you  nervous." 

She  nodded,  and  then  caught  her 
self  up. 

"There's  nothing  you  mightn't  see," 
she  said,  proudly,  ignoring  her  previous 
outburst.  "You  or  anybody  else,  even 
with  a  microscope." 

"No,  of  course  not.  Only  you'd  say 
microscopes  aren't  fair.  Well,  perhaps 
they're  not.  And  portrait-painting  is  a 
very  simple  matter.  It's  not  the  black 
art.  But  if  I  go  on  with  this,  you  are 
to  let  me  do  it  in  my  own  way.  You're 
not  to  look  at  it." 

"  Not  even  when  you're  not  at  work  ?" 

"Not  once,  morning,  noon,  or  night, 
till  I  invite  you  to.  You  were  always  a 
good  fellow,  Mary.  You'll  keep  your 
word." 

"  No,  I  won't  look  at  it,"  said  Mary. 

Thereafter  she  stayed  away  from  the 
barn,  not  only  when  he  was  painting, 
but  at  other  times,  and  Wilmer  missed 
her.  He  worked  very  fast,  and  made  his 
plans  for  sailing,  and  Aunt  Celia  loudly 
bemoaned  his  stinginess  in  cutting  short 
the  summer.  One  day,  after  breakfast, 
he  sought  out  Mary  again  in  the  garden, 


The  Wizard's  Touch  63 

She  was  snipping-  Coreopsis  for  the  din 
ner  table,  but  she  did  it  absently,  and 
Jerome  noted  the  heaviness  of  her  eyes. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  he  asked,  ab 
ruptly,  and  she  was  shaken  out  of  her 
late  constraint.  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  piteous  smile. 

"Nothing  much,"  she  said.  "It 
doesn't  matter.  I  suppose  it's  fate.  He 
has  written  his  letter." 

"Marshby?" 

"  You  knew  he  got  his  appointment  ?" 

"  No ;  I  saw  something  had  him  by  the 
heels,  but  he's  been  still  as  a  fish." 

"It  came  three  days  ago.  He  has  de 
cided  not  to  take  it.  And  it  will  break 
his  heart." 

"It  will  break  your  heart,"  Wilmer 
opened  his  lips  to  say;  but  he  dared 
not  jostle  her  mood  of  unconsidered 
frankness. 

"  I  suppose  I  expected  it,"  she  went  on. 
"I  did  expect  it.  Yet  he's  been  so  dif 
ferent  lately,  it  gave  me  a  kind  of  hope." 

Jerome  started.  "How  has  he  been 
different?"  he  asked. 

"  More  confident,  less  doubtful  of  him 
self.  It's  not  anything  he  has  said.  It's 
in  his  speech,  his  walk.  He  even  carries 
his  head  differently,  as  if  he  had  a  right 
to.  Well,  we  talked  half  the  night  last 


64  Harper's  Novelettes 

night,  and  he  went  home  to  write  the 
letter.  He  promised  me  not  to  mail  it 
till  he'd  seen  me  once  more;  but  nothing 
will  make  any  difference." 

"You  won't  beseech  him?" 

"  No.    He  is  a  man.    He  must  decide." 

"You  won't  tell  him  what  depends 
on  it?" 

"Nothing  depends  on  it,"  said  Mary, 
calmly.  "  Nothing  except  his  own  hap 
piness.  I  shall  find  mine  in  letting  him 
accept  his  life  according  to  his  own 
free  will." 

There  was  something  majestic  in  her 
mental  attitude.  Wilmer  felt  how  noble 
her  maturity  was  to  be,  and  told  himself, 
with  a  thrill  of  pride,  that  he  had  done 
well  to  love  her. 

"Marshby  is  coming,"  he  said.  "I 
want  to  show  you  both  the  picture." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "  Not  this  morn 
ing,"  she  told  him,  and  he  could  see  how 
meagre  canvas  and  paint  must  seem  to 
her  after  her  vision  of  the  body  of  life. 
But  he  took  her  hand. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  gently ;  "  you  must." 

Still  holding  her  flowers,  she  went 
with  him,  though  her  mind  abode  with 
her  lost  cause.  Marshby  halted  when  he 
saw  them  coming,  and  Jerome  had  time 
to  look  at  him.  The  man  held  himself 


The  Wizard's  Touch  65 

wilfully  erect,  but  his  face  betrayed  him. 
It  was  haggard,  smitten.  He  had  not 
only  met  defeat;  he  had  accepted  it. 
Jerome  nodded  to  him  and  went  on  be 
fore  them  to  the  barn.  The  picture  stood 
there  in  a  favoring  light.  Mary  caught 
her  breath  sharply,  and  then  all  three 
were  silent.  Jerome  stood  there  forget 
ful  of  them,  his;  eyes  on  his  completed 
work,  and  for  the  moment  he  had  in  it 
the  triumph  of  one  who  sees  intention 
brought  to  fruitage  under  perfect  aus 
pices.  It  meant  more  to  him,  that  recog 
nition,  than  any  glowing  moment  of  his 
youth.  The  scroll  of  his  life  unrolled 
before  him,  and  he  saw  his  past,  as  other 
men  acclaimed  it,  running  into  the  future 
ready  for  his  hand  to  make.  A  great  il 
lumination  touched  the  days  to  come. 
Brilliant  in  promise,  they  were  yet  bar 
ren  of  hope.  For  as  surely  as  he  had  been 
able  to  set  this  seal  on  Mary's  present, 
he  saw  how  the  thing  itself  would  sep 
arate  them.  He  had  painted  her  ideal 
of  Marshby;  but  whenever  in  the  future 
she  should  nurse  the  man  through  the 
mental  sickness  bound  always  to  delay 
his  march,  she  would  remember  this  mo 
ment  with  a  pang,  as  something  Jerome 
had  dowered  him  with,  not  something  he 

had    attained    unaided.      Marshby   faced 
s         D.G. 


66  Harper's  Novelettes 

them  from  the  canvas,  erect,  undaunted, 
a  soldier  fronting  the  dawn,  expectant 
of  battle,  yet  with  no  dread  of  its  event 
He  was  not  in  any  sense  alien  to  himself. 
He  dominated,  not  by  crude  force,  but 
through  the  sustained  inward  strength 
of  him.  It  was  not  youth  Jerome  had 
given  him.  There  was  maturity  in  the 
face.  It  had  its  lines — the  lines  that  are 
the  scars  of  battle;  but  somehow  not  one 
suggested,  even  to  the  doubtful  mind,  a 
battle  lost.  Jerome  turned  from  the 
picture  to  the  man  himself,  and  had  his 
own  surprise.  Marshby  was  transfigured. 
He  breathed  humility  and  hope.  He 
stirred  at  Wilmer's  motion. 

"Am  I" — he  glowed — "could  I  have 
looked  like  that  ?"  Then  in  the  poignancy 
of  the  moment  he  saw  how  disloyal  to 
the  moment  it  was  even  to  hint  at  what 
should  have  been,  without  snapping  the 
link  now  into  the  welding  present.  He 
straightened  himself  and  spoke  brusque 
ly,  but  to  Mary  : 

"  I'll  go  back  and  write  that  letter. 
Here  is  the  one  I  wrote  last  night." 

He  took  it  from  his  pocket,  tore  it  in 
two,  and  gave  it  to  her.  Then  he  turned 
away  and  walked  with  the  soldier's  step 
home.  Jerome  could  not  look  at  her. 
He  began  moving  back  the  picture. 


The  Wizard's  Touch  67 

"  There !"  he  said,  "  it's  finished.  Bet 
ter  make  up  your  mind  where  you'll  have 
it  put.  I  shall  be  picking  up  my  traps 
this  morning." 

Then  Mary  gave  him  his  other  surprise. 
Her  hands  were  on  his  shoulders.  Her 
eyes,  full  of  the  welling  gratitude  that 
is  one  kind  of  love,  spoke  like  her  lips. 

"  Oh!"  said  she,  "  do  you  think  I  don't 
know  what  you've  done  ?  I  couldn't  take 
it  from  anybody  else.  I  couldn't  let  him 
take  it.  It's  like  standing  beside  him 
in  battle;  like  lending  him  your  horse, 
your  sword.  It's  being  a  comrade.  It's 
helping  him  fight.  And  he  will  fight. 
That's  the  glory  of  it!" 


The  Bitter  Cup 

BY    CHARLES    B.    DE    CAMP 

CLAKA  LEEDS  sat  by  the  open 
window  of  her  sitting-room  with 
her  fancy  work.  Her  hair  was 
done  up  in  an  irreproachable  style,  and  her 
finger-nails  were  carefully  manicured  and 
pink  like  little  shells.  She  had  a  slender 
waist,  and  looked  down  at  it  from  time 
to  time  with  satisfied  eyes.  At  the  back 
of  her  collar  was  a  little  burst  of  chiffon ; 
for  chiffon  so  arranged  was  the  fashion. 
She  cast  idle  glances  at  the  prospect 
from  the  window.  It  was  not  an  al 
luring  one — a  row  of  brick  houses  with 
an  annoying  irregularity  of  open  and 
closed  shutters. 

There  was  the  quiet  rumble  of  a  car 
riage  in  the  street,  and  Clara  Leeds 
leaned  forward,  her  eyes  following  the 
vehicle  until  to  look  further  would  have 
necessitated  leaning  out  of  the  window. 
There  were  two  women  in  the  carriage, 
both  young  and  soberly  dressed.  To  cer- 


The  Bitter  Cup  69 

tain  eyes  they  might  have  appeared  out 
of  place  in  a  carriage,  and  yet,  somehow, 
it  was  obvious  that  it  was  their  own. 
Clara  Leeds  resumed  her  work,  making 
quick,  jerky  stitches. 

"  Clara  Leeds,"  she  murmured,  as  if 
irritated.  She  frowned  and  then  sighed. 
"  If  only  —  if  only  it  was  something 
else;  if  it  only  had  two  syllables.  .  .  ." 
She  put  aside  her  work  and  went  and 
stood  before  the  mirror  of  her  dresser. 
She  looked  long  at  her  face.  It  was  fresh 
and  pretty,  and  her  blue  eyes,  in  spite 
of  their  unhappy  look,  were  clear  and 
shining.  She  fingered  a  strand  of  hair, 
and  then  cast  critical  sidelong  glances  at 
her  profile.  She  smoothed  her  waist-line 
with  a  movement  peculiar  to  women. 
Then  she  tilted  the  glass  and  regarded 
the  reflection  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Oh,  what  is  it  ?"  she  demanded,  dis 
tressed,  of  herself  in  the  glass.  She  took 
up  her  work  again. 

"  They  don't  seem  to  care  how  they 
look  and  .  .  .  they  do  wear  shabby  gloves 
and  shoes."  So  her  thoughts  ran.  "  But 
they  are  the  Rockwoods  and  they  don't 
have  to  care.  It  must  be  so  easy  for 
them;  they  only  have  to  visit  the  Day 
Nursery,  and  the  Home  for  Incurables, 
and  some  old,  poor,  sick  people.  They 


70  Harpers  Novelettes 

never  have  to  meet  them  and  ask  them  to 
dinner.  They  just  say  a  few  words  and 
leave  some  money  or  things  in  a  nice  way, 
and  they  can  go  home  and  do  what  they 
please."  Clara  Leeds's  eyes  rested  un- 
seeingly  on  the  house  opposite.  "  It  must 
be  nice  to  have  a  rector  ...  he  is  such 
an  intellectual-looking  man,  so  quiet  and 
dignified;  just  the  way  a  minister  should 
be,  instead  of  like  Mr.  Copple,  who  tries 
to  be  jolly  and  get  up  sociables  and  par 
lor  meetings."  There  were  tears  in  the 
girl's  eyes. 

A  tea-bell  rang,  and  Clara  went  down 
stairs  to  eat  dinner  with  her  father.  He 
had  just  come  in  and  was  putting  on  a 
short  linen  coat.  Clara's  mother  was 
dead.  She  was  the  only  child  at  home, 
and  kept  house  for  her  father. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  all  ready  for  the 
lawn-tennis  match  this  afternoon?"  said 
Mr.  Leeds  to  his  daughter.  "  Mr.  Copple 
said  you  were  going  to  play  with  him. 
My!  that  young  man  is  up  to  date. 
Think  of  a  preacher  getting  up  a  lawn- 
tennis  club!  Why,  when  I  was  a  young 
man  that  would  have  shocked  people  out 
of  their  boots.  But  it's  broad-minded, 
it's  broad-minded,"  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand.  "I  like  to  see  a  man  with  ideas, 
and  if  lawn-tennis  will  help  to  keep  our 


The  Bitter  Cup  71 

boys  out  of  sin's  pathway,  why,  then, 
lawn-tennis  is  a  strong,  worthy  means  of 
doing  the  Lord's  work." 

"Yes,"  said  Clara.  "Did  Mr.  Cop- 
ple  say  he  would  call  for  me?  It  isn't 
necessary." 

"Oh  yes,  yes,"  said  her  father;  "he 
said  to  tell  you  he  would  be  around  here 
at  two  o'clock.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  go 
over  myself  and  see  part  of  the  athletics. 
We  older  folks  ain't  quite  up  to  taking 
a  hand  in  the  game,  but  we  can  give 
Copple  our  support  by  looking  in  on  you 
and  cheering  on  the  good  work." 

After  dinner  Mr.  Leeds  changed  the 
linen  coat  for  a  cutaway  and  started 
back  to  his  business.  Clara  went  up-stairs 
and  put  on  a  short  skirt  and  tennis 
shoes.  She  again  surveyed  herself  in  the 
mirror.  The  skirt  certainly  hung  just 
like  the  model.  She  sighed  and  got  out 
her  tennis-racquet.  Then  she  sat  down 
and  read  in  a  book  of  poems  that  she  was 
very  fond  of. 

At  two  o'clock  the  bell  jangled,  and 
Clara  opened  the  door  for  Mr.  Copple  her 
self.  The  clergyman  was  of  slight  build, 
and  had  let  the  hair  in  front  of  his  ears 
grow  down  a  little  way  on  his  cheeks. 
He  wore  a  blue  yachting-cap,  and  white 
duck  trousers  which  were  rolled  up  and 


72  Harper's  Novelettes 

displayed  a  good  deal  of  red  and  black 
sock.  For  a  moment  Clara  imaged  a 
clear-cut  face  with  grave  eyes  above  a 
length  of  clerical  waistcoat,  on  which 
gleamed  a  tiny  gold  cross  suspended  from 
a  black  cord. 

"  I  guess  we  might  as  well  go  over," 
she  said.  "  I'm  all  ready." 

The  clergyman  insisted  on  carrying 
Clara's  racquet.  "  You  are  looking  very 
well,"  he  said,  somewhat  timidly,  but  with 
admiring  eyes.  "  But  perhaps  you  don't 
feel  as  much  like  playing  as  you  look." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do  indeed,"  replied  Clara, 
inwardly  resenting  the  solicitude  in  his 
tone. 

They  set  out,  and  the  clergyman  ap 
peared  to  shake  his  mind  free  of  a  pre 
occupation. 

"  I  hope  all  the  boys  will  be  around," 
he  said,  with  something  of  anxiety. 
"  They  need  the  exercise.  All  young, 
active  fellows  ought  to  have  it.  I  spoke 
to  Mr.  Goodloe  and  Mr.  Sharp  and  urged 
them  to  let  Tom  and  Fred  Martin  off 
this  afternoon.  I  think  they  will  do  it. 
Ralph  Carpenter,  I'm  afraid,  can't  get 
away  from  the  freight-office,  but  I  am  in 
hopes  that  Mr.  Stiggins  can  take  his  place. 
Did  you  know  that  Mrs.  Thompson  has 
promised  to  donate  some  lemonade  ?" 


The  Bitter  Cup  73 

"  That's  very  nice,"  said  Clara.  "It's 
a  lovely  day  for  the  match."  She  was 
thinking,  "  What  short  steps  he  takes !" 

After  some  silent  walking  the  clergy 
man  said:  "I  don't  believe  you  know, 
Miss  Leeds,  how  much  I  appreciate  your 
taking  part  in  these  tennis  matches. 
Somehow  I  feel  that  it  is  asking  a  great 
deal  of  you,  for  I  know  that  you  have — 
er — so  many  interests  of  your  own — that 
is,  you  are  different  in  many  ways  from 
most  of  our  people.  I  want  you  to  know 
that  I  am  grateful  for  the  influence — 
your  cooperation,  you  know — " 

"  Please,  Mr.  Copple,  don't  mention  it," 
said  Clara,  hurriedly.  "I  haven't  so 
many  interests  as  you  imagine,  and  I  am 
not  any  different  from  the  rest  of  the 
people.  Not  at  all."  If  there  was  any 
hardness  in  the  girl's  tone  the  clergyman 
did  not  appear  to  notice  it.  They  had 
reached  their  destination. 

The  tennis-court  was  on  the  main 
street  just  beyond  the  end  of  the  business 
section.  It  was  laid  out  on  a  vacant  lot 
between  two  brick  houses.  A  wooden 
sign  to  one  side  of  the  court  announced, 

«First  Church  Tennis  Club." 

When  Clara  and  Mr.  Copple  arrived  at 
the  court  there  were  a  number  of  young 
people  gathered  in  the  lot.  Most  of  them 


74  Harper's  Novelettes 

had  tennis-racquets,  those  of  the  girls 
being  decorated  with  bows  of  yellow, 
black,  and  lavender  ribbon.  Mr.  Copple 
shook  hands  with  everybody,  and  ran  over 
the  court  several  times,  testing  the  con 
sistency  of  the  earth. 

"  Everything  is  capital !"  he  cried. 

Clara  Leeds  bowed  to  the  others,  sha 
king  hands  with  only  one  or  two.  They 
appeared  to  be  afraid  of  her.  The  finals 
in  the  men's  singles  were  between  Mr. 
Copple  and  Elbert  Dunklethorn,  who  was 
called  "  Ellie."  He  wore  a  very  high 
collar,  and  as  his  shoes  had  heels,  he  ran 
about  the  court  on  his  toes. 

Clara,  watching  him,  recalled  her 
father's  words  at  dinner.  "  How  will 
this  save  that  boy  from  sin's  pathway?" 
she  thought.  She  regarded  the  clergy 
man;  she  recognized  his  zeal.  But  why, 
why  must  she  be  a  part  of  this — what 
was  it  ? — this  system  of  saving  people  and 
this  kind  of  people?  If  she  could  only 
go  and  be  good  to  poor  and  unfortu 
nate  people  whom  she  wouldn't  have  to 
know.  Clara  glanced  toward  the  street. 
"  I  hope  they  won't  come  past,"  she  said 
to  herself. 

The  set  in  which  Clara  and  the  clergy 
man  were  partners  was  the  most  exciting 
of  the  afternoon.  The  space  on  either 


The  Bitter  Cup  75 

side  of  the  court  was  quite  filled  with 
spectators.  Some  of  the  older  people 
who  had  come  with  the  lengthening 
shadows  sat  on  chairs  brought  from  the 
kitchens  of  the  adjoining  houses.  Among 
them  was  Mr.  Leeds,  his  face  animated. 
Whenever  a  ball  went  very  high  up  or 
very  far  down  the  lot,  he  cried,  "  Hoo 
ray!"  Clara  was  at  the  net  facing  the 
street,  when  the  carriage  she  had  ob 
served  in  the  morning  stopped  in  view, 
and  the  two  soberly  dressed  women  lean 
ed  forward  to  watch  the  play.  Clara  felt 
her  face  burn,  and  when  they  cried 
"  game,"  she  could  not  remember  whether 
the  clergyman  and  she  had  won  it  or 
lost  it.  She  was  chiefly  conscious  of  her 
father's  loud  "hoorays."  With  the  end 
of  the  play  the  carriage  was  driven  on. 

Shortly  before  supper-time  that  eve 
ning  Clara  went  to  the  drug-store  to  buy 
some  stamps.  One  of  the  Misses  Rock- 
wood  was  standing  by  the  show  -  case 
waiting  for  the  clerk  to  wrap  up  a  bottle. 
Clara  noted  the  scantily  trimmed  hat 
and  the  scuffed  gloves.  She  nodded  in 
response  to  Miss  Rockwood's  bow.  They 
had  met  but  once. 

"  That  was  a  glorious  game  of  tennis 
you  were  having  this  afternoon,"  said 
Miss  Rockwood,  with  a  warm  smile.  "  My 


76  Harper's  Novelettes 

sister  and  I  should  like  to  have  seen  more 
of  it.  You  all  seemed  to  be  having  such 
a  good  time." 

"  You  all—" 

Clara  fumbled  her  change.  "  It's — it's 
good  exercise,"  she  said.  That  night  she 
cried  herself  to  sleep. 

II 

The  rector  married  the  younger  Miss 
Rockwood.  To  Clara  Leeds  the  match 
afforded  painfully  pleasurable  feeling.  It 
was  so  eminently  fitting;  and  yet  it  was 
hard  to  believe  that  any  man  could  see 
anything  in  Miss  Rockwood.  His  court 
ship  had  been  in  keeping  with  the  man, 
dignified  and  yet  bold.  Clara  had  met 
them  several  times  together.  She  always 
hurried  past.  The  rector  bowed  quietly. 
He  seemed  to  say  to  all  the  world,  "  I 
have  chosen  me  a  woman."  His  manner 
defied  gossip;  there  was  none  that  Clara 
heard.  This  immunity  of  theirs  distilled 
the  more  bitterness  in  her  heart  because 
gossip  was  now  at  the  heels  of  her  and 
Mr.  Copple,  following  them  as  chickens 
do  the  feed-box.  She  knew  it  from  such 
transmissions  as,  "  But  doubtless  Mr. 
Copple  has  already  told  you,"  or,  "  You 
ought  to  know,  if  any  one  does." 

It  had  been  some  time  apparent  to  Clara 


The  Bitter  Cup  77 

that  the  minister  held  her  in  a  different 
regard  from  the  other  members  of  his 
congregation.  His  talks  with  her  were 
more  personal;  his  manner  was  bash 
fully  eager.  He  sought  to  present  the 
congeniality  of  their  minds.  Mr. 
Copple  had  a  nice  taste  in  poetry, 
but  somehow  Clara,  in  after  -  reading, 
skipped  those  poems  that  he  had 
read  aloud  to  her.  On  several  occasions 
she  knew  that  a  declaration  was  immi 
nent.  She  extricated  herself  with  a 
feeling  of  unspeakable  relief.  It  would 
not  be  a  simple  matter  to  refuse  him. 
Their  relations  had  been  peculiar,  and 
to  tell  him  that  she  did  not  love  him 
would  not  suffice  in  bringing  them  to 
an  end.  Mr.  Copple  was  odious  to  her. 
She  could  not  have  explained  why 
clearly,  yet  she  knew.  And  she  would 
have  blushed  in  the  attempt  to  ex 
plain  why;  it  would  have  revealed  a 
detestation  of  her  lot.  Clara  had  lately 
discovered  the  meaning  of  the  word 
"  plebeian  " ;  more,  she  believed  she  com 
prehended  its  applicableness.  The  word 
was  a  burr  in  her  thoughts.  Mr.  Copple 
was  the  personification  of  the  word. 
Clara  had  not  repulsed  him.  You  do  not 
do  that  sort  of  thing  in  a  small  town. 
She  knew  intuitively  that  the  clergyman 


78  Harper's  Novelettes 

would  not  be  satisfied  with  the  statement 
that  he  was  not  loved.  She  also  knew 
that  he  would  extract  part,  at  least,  of 
the  real  reason  from  her.  It  is  more 
painful  for  a  lover  to  learn  that  he  is 
not  liked  than  that  he  is  not  loved. 
Clara  did  not  wish  to  cause  him  pain. 

She  was  spared  the  necessity.  The 
minister  fell  from  a  scaffolding  on  the 
new  church  and  was  picked  up  dead. 

Clara's  position  was  pitiful.  Sudden 
death  does  not  grow  less  shocking  be 
cause  of  its  frequency.  Clara  shared  the 
common  shock,  but  not  the  common  grief. 
Fortunately,  as  hers  was  supposed  to  be 
a  peculiar  grief,  she  could  manifest  it  in 
a  peculiar  way.  She  chose  silence.  'The 
shock  had  bereft  her  of  much  thought. 
Death  had  laid  a  hand  over  the  mouth  of 
her  mind.  But  deep  down  a  feeling  of 
relief  swam  in  her  heart.  She  gave  it  no 
welcome,  but  it  would  take  no  dismissal. 

About  a  week  after  the  funeral,  Clara, 
who  walked  out  much  alone,  was  return 
ing  home  near  the  outskirts  of  town. 
The  houses  were  far  apart,  and  between 
them  stretched  deep  lots  fringed  with 
flowered  weeds  man-high.  A  level  sun 
shot  long  golden  needles  through  the 
blanched  maple-trees,  and  the  street  be 
neath  them  was  filled  with  lemon-coloreci 


The  Bitter  Cup  79 

light.  The  roll  of  a  light  vehicle  ap 
proaching  from  behind  grew  distinct 
enough  to  attract  Clara's  attention.  "  It 
is  Mrs.  Ouster  coming  back  from  the 
Poor  Farm,"  she  thought.  It  was  Mrs. 
Everett  Ouster,  who  was  formerly  the 
younger  Miss  Rockwood,  and  she  was 
coming  from  the  Poor  Farm.  The  phae 
ton  came  into  Clara's  sight  beside  her  at 
the  curb.  As  she  remarked  it,  Mrs. 
Ouster  said,  in  her  thin,  sympathetic 
voice,  "  Miss  Leeds,  won't  you  drive  with 
me  back  to  town  ?  I  wish  you  would." 

An  excuse  rose  instinctively  to  Clara's 
lips.  She  was  walking  for  exercise.  But 
suddenly  a  thought  came  to  her,  and  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  she  said :  "  You 
are  very  kind.  I  am  a  little  tired."  She 
got  into  the  phaeton,  and  the  sober  horse 
resumed  his  trot  down  the  yellow  street. 

Clara's  thought  was :  "  Why  shouldn't 
I  accept?  She  is  too  well  bred  to  sym 
pathize  with  me,  and  perhaps,  now  that  I 
am  free,  I  can  get  to  know  her  and  show 
her  that  I  am  not  just  the  same  as  all 
the  rest,  and  perhaps  I'll  get  to  going 
with  her  sort  of  people." 

She  listened  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
horse's  hoof-beats,  and  was  not  a  little 
uneasy.  Mrs.  Custer  remarked  the  beauty 
of  the  late  afternoon,  the  glorious  sym- 


8o  Harper's  Novelettes 

phonies  of  color  in  sky  and  tree,  in  re 
sponse  to  which  Clara  said,  "  Yes,  indeed," 
and,  "Isn't  it?"  between  long  breaths. 
She  was  about  to  essay  a  question  con 
cerning  the  Poor  Farm,  when  Mrs.  Ouster 
began  to  speak,  at  first  faltering,  in  a 
tone  that  sent  the  blood  out  of  Clara's 
face  and  drew  a  sudden  catching  pain 
down  her  breast. 

"I — really,  Miss  Leeds,  I  want  to  say 
something  to  you  and  I  don't  quite  know 
how  to  say  it,  and  yet  it  is  something  I 
want  very  much  for  you  to  know."  Mrs. 
Custer's  eyes  looked  the  embarrassment 
of  unencouraged  frankness.  "  I  know  it 
is  presumptuous  for  me,  almost  a  stranger, 
to  speak  to  you,  but  I  feel  so  deeply  on 
the  matter — Everett — Mr.  Custer  feels  so 
deeply —  My  dear  Miss  Leeds,  I  want  you 
to  know  what  a  grief  his  loss  was  to  us. 
Oh,  believe  me,  I  am  not  trying  to  sym 
pathize  with  you.  I  have  no  right  to  do 
that.  But  if  you  could  know  how  Mr. 
Custer  always  regarded  Mr.  Copple!  It 
might  mean  something  to  you  to  know 
that.  I  don't  think  there  was  a  man  for 
whom  he  expressed  greater  admiration — 
than  what,  I  mean,  he  expressed  to  me. 
He  saw  in  him  all  that  he  lacked  himself. 
I  am  telling  you  a  great  deal.  It  is  diffi 
cult  for  my  husband  to  go  among  men  in 


The  Bitter  Cup  81 

that  way — in  the  way  he  did.  And  yet 
he  firmly  believes  that  the  Kingdom  of 
God  can  only  be  brought  to  men  by  the 
ministers  of  God  going  among  them  and 
being  of  them.  He  envied  Mr.  Copple  his 
ability  to  do  that,  to  know  his  people  as 
one  of  them,  to  take  part  in  their — their 
sports  and  all  that.  You  don't  know 
how  he  envied  him  and  admired  him. 
And  his  admiration  was  my  admiration. 
He  brought  me  to  see  it.  I  envied  you, 
too — your  opportunity  to  help  your  people 
in  an  intimate,  real  way  which  seemed  so 
much  better  than  mine.  I  don't  know 
why  it  is  my  way,  but  I  mean  going  about 
as  I  do,  as  I  did  to-day  to  the  Poor  Farm. 
It  seems  so  perfunctory. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  Miss 
Leeds,"  and  Mrs.  Ouster  laid  a  hand  on 
Clara's  arm.  "  There  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  care  what  Mr.  Ouster  and  I 
think  about  your — about  our — all  our 
very  great  loss.  But  I  felt  that  it 
must  be  some  comfort  for  you  to  know 
that  we,  my  husband  and  I,  who  might 
seem  indifferent  —  not  that  —  say  un 
affected  by  what  has  happened, — feel  it 
very,  very  deeply;  and  to  know  that  his 
life,  which  I  can't  conceive  of  as  finished, 
has  left  a  deep,  deep  print  on  ours." 

The  phaeton  was  rolling  through  fre- 


82  Harper's  Novelettes 

quented  streets.  It  turned  a  corner  as 
Mrs.  Ouster  ceased  speaking. 

"  T — I  must  get  out  here/7  said  Clara 
Leeds.  "  You  needn't  drive  me.  It  is 
only  a  block  to  walk." 

"  Miss  Leeds,  forgive  me — "  Mrs.  Ous 
ter's  lips  trembled  with  compassion. 

"  Oh,  there  isn't  anything — it  isn't 
that — good  night."  Clara  backed  down 
to  the  street  and  hurried  off  through  the 
dusk.  And  as  she  went  tears  dropped 
slowly  to  her  cheeks — cold,  wretched  tears. 


His  Sister 

BY  MABY  APPLEWHITE  BACON 

TIT  you  couldn't  see  me  leave, 
mother,  anyway,  unless  I  was 
there  to  go." 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  girl  ad 
justing  her  new  travelling-hat  before  the 
dim  little  looking-glass  that,  while  her 
heart  was  beating  with  excitement  which 
was  strangely  like  grief,  she  could  give 
herself  at  once  to  her  stepmother's  in 
quietude  and  turn  it  aside  with  a  jest. 

Mrs.  Morgan,  arrested  in  her  anxious 
movement  towards  the  door,  stood  for  a 
moment  taking  in  the  reasonableness  of 
Stella's  proposition,  and  then  sank  back 
to  the  edge  of  her  chair.  "  The  train  gets, 
here  at  two  o'clock,"  she  argued. 

Lindsay  Cowart  came  into  the  room, 
his  head  bent  over  the  satchel  he  had  been 
mending.  "You  had  better  say  good-by 
to  Stella  here  at  the  house,  mother,"  he 
suggested;  "there's  no  use  for  you  to 
walk  down  to  the  depot  in  the  hot  sun." 


84  Harper's  Novelettes 

And  then  he  noticed  that  his  stepmother 
had  on  her  bonnet  with  the  veil  to  it— 
she  had  married  since  his  father's  death 
and  was  again  a  widow, — and,  in  extreme 
disregard  of  the  September  heat,  was 
dressed  in  the  black  worsted  of  a  diag 
onal  weave  which  she  wore  only  on  occa 
sions  which  demanded  some  special  trib 
ute  to  their  importance. 

She  began  smoothing  out  on  her  knees 
the  black  gloves  which,  in  her  nervous 
haste  to  be  going,  she  had  been  hold 
ing  squeezed  in  a  tight  ball  in  her  left 
hand.  "  I  can  get  there,  I  reckon,"  she 
answered  with  mild  brevity,  and  as  if 
the  young  man's  words  had  barely  grazed 
her  consciousness. 

A  moment  later  she  went  to  the  win 
dow  and,  with  her  back  to  Lindsay, 
poured  the  contents  of  a  small  leather 
purse  into  one  hand  and  began  to  count 
them  softly. 

He  looked  up  again.  "  I  am  going  to 
pay  for  Stella's  ticket,  mother.  You  must 
not  do  it,"  he  said. 

She  replaced  the  money  immediately, 
but  without  impatience,  and  as  acquies 
cing  in  his  assumption  of  his  sister's 
future.  "You  have  done  so  much  al 
ready,"  he  apologized;  but  he  knew  that 
she  was  hurt,  and  chafed  to  feel  that  only 


His  Sister  85 

the  irrational  thing-  on  his  part  would 
have  seemed  to  her  the  kind  one. 

Stella  turned  from  the  verdict  of  the 
dim  looking-glass  upon  her  appearance  to 
that  of  her  brother's  face.  As  she  stood 
there  in  that  moment  of  pause,  she  might 
have  been  the  type  of  all  innocent  and 
budding  life.  The  delicacy  of  floral 
bloom  was  in  the  fine  texture  of  her  skin, 
the  purple  of  dewy  violets  in  her  soft 
eyes;  and  this  new  access  of  sadness, 
which  was  as  yet  hardly  conscious  of 
itself,  had  thrown  over  the  natural 
gayety  of  her  young-  girlhood  something 
akin  to  the  pathetic  tenderness  which 
veils  the  earth  in  the  dawn  of  a  sum 
mer  morning. 

He  felt  it  to  be  so,  but  dimly;  and, 
young  himself  and  already  strained  by  the 
exactions  of  personal  desires,  he  answered 
only  the  look  of  inquiry  in  her  face, — • 
"  Will  the  merchants  here  never  learn 
any  taste  in  dry-goods?" 

Instantly  he  was  sick  with  regret.  Of 
what  consequence  was  the  too  pronounced 
blue  of  her  dress  in  comparison  with  the 
light  of  happiness  in  her  dear  face  ?  How 
impossible  for  him  to  be  here  for  even 
these  few  hours  without  running  counter 
to  some  cherished  illusion  or  dear  habit 
of  speech  or  manner. 


86  Harper's  Novelettes 

"I  tell  you  it's  time  we  were  go 
ing,"  Mrs.  Morgan  appealed,  her  anxie 
ty  returning. 

"We  have  thirty-five  minutes  yet/' 
Lindsay  said,  looking  at  his  watch ;  but 
he  gathered  up  the  bags  and  umbrellas 
and  followed  as  she  moved  ponderously  to 
the  door. 

Stella  waited  until  they  were  out  in  the 
hall,  and  then  looked  around  the  room,  a 
poignant  tenderness  in  her  eyes.  There 
was  nothing  congruous  between  its 
shabby  walls  and  cheap  worn  furniture 
and  her  own  beautiful  young  life;  but 
the  heart  establishes  its  own  relations,  and 
tears  rose  suddenly  to  her  eyes  and  fell 
in  quick  succession.  Even  so  brief  a 
farewell  was  broken  in  upon  by  her  step 
mother's  call,  and  pressing  her  wet  cheek 
for  a  moment  against  the  discolored 
door-facing,  she  hurried  out  to  join  her. 

Lindsay  did  not  at  first  connect  the  un 
usual  crowd  in  and  around  the  little 
station  with  his  sister's  departure;  but 
the  young  people  at  once  formed  a  circle 
around  her,  into  which  one  and  another 
older  person  entered  and  retired  again 
with  about  the  same  expressions  of 
affectionate  regret  and  good  wishes.  He 
had  known  them  all  so  long!  But,  ex 
cept  for  the  growing  up  of  the  younger 


His  Sister  87 

boys  and  girls  during  his  five  years  of  ab 
sence,  they  were  to  him  still  what  they 
had  been  since  he  was  a  child,  affecting 
him  still  with  the  old  depressing  sense  of 
distance  and  dislike.  The  grammarless 
speech  of  the  men,  the  black-rimmed  nails 
of  Stella's  schoolmaster — a  good  classical 
scholar,  but  heedless  as  he  was  good- 
hearted, — jarred  upon  him,  indeed,  with 
the  discomfort  of  a  new  experience. 
Upon  his  own  slender,  erect  figure, 
clothed  in  poor  but  well-fitting  garments, 
gentleman  was  written  as  plainly  as  in 
words,  just  as  idealist  was  written  on  his 
forehead  and  the  other  features  which 
thought  had  chiselled  perhaps  too  finely 
for  his  years. 

The  brightness  had  come  back  to 
Stella's  face,  and  he  could  not  but  feel 
grateful  to  the  men  who  had  left  their 
shops  and  dingy  little  stores  to  bid  her 
good-by,  and  to  the  placid,  kindly-faced 
women  ranged  along  the  settees  against 
the  wall  and  conversing  in  low  tones 
about  how  she  would  be  missed;  but  the 
noisy  flock  of  young  people,  who  with 
their  chorus  of  expostulations,  assur 
ances,  and  prophecies  seemed  to  make  her 
one  of  themselves,  filled  him  with  strong 
displeasure.  He  knew  how  foolish  it 
would  be  for  him  to  show  it,  but  he  could 


88  Harper's  Novelettes 

get  no  further  in  his  effort  at  conceal 
ment  than  a  cold  silence  which  was  itself 
significant  enough.  A  tall  youth  with 
bold  and  handsome  features  and  a  pretty 
girl  in  a  showy  red  muslin  ignored  him 
altogether,  with  a  pride  which  really 
quite  overmatched  his  own;  but  the  rest 
shrank  back  a  little  as  he  passed  looking 
after  the  checks  and  tickets,  either  cut 
ting  short  their  sentences  at  his  ap 
proach  or  missing  the  point  of  what  they 
had  to  say.  The  train  seemed  to  him 
long  in  coming. 

His  stepmother  moved  to  the  end  of 
the  settee  and  made  a  place  for  him  at 
her  side.  "  Lindsay,"  she  said,  under 
cover  of  the  talk  and  laughter,  and  speak 
ing  with  some  difficulty,  "  I  hope  you 
will  be  able  to  carry  out  all  your  plans 
for  yourself  and  Stella;  but  while  you're 
making  the  money,  she  will  have  to  make 
the  friends.  Don't  you  ever  interfere 
with  her  doing  it.  From  what  little  I 
have  seen  of  the  world,  it's  going  to  take 
both  to  carry  you  through." 

His  face  flushed  a  little,  but  he  recog 
nized  her  faithfulness  and  did  it  honor. 
"  That  is  true,  mother,  and  I  will  remem 
ber  what  you  say.  But  I  have  some 
friends,"  he  added,  in  enforced  self- 
vindication,  "  in  Yaucluse  if  not  here." 


His  Sister  89 

A  whistle  sounded  up  the  road.  She 
caught  his  hand  with  a  swift  accession  of 
tenderness  towards  his  youth.  "  You've 
done  the  best  you  could,  Lindsay,"  she 
said.  "I  wish  you  well,  my  son,  I  wish 
you  well."  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

George  Morrow  and  the  girl  in  red  fol 
lowed  Stella  into  the  car,  not  at  all  dis 
concerted  at  having  to  get  off  after  the 
train  was  in  motion.  "  Don't  forget  me, 
Stella,"  the  girl  called  back.  "  Don't  you 
ever  forget  Ida  Brand!" 

There  was  a  waving  of  hands  and 
handkerchiefs  from  the  little  station, 
aglare  in  the  early  afternoon  sun.  A  few 
moments  later  the  train  had  rounded  a 
curve,  shutting  the  meagre  village  from 
sight,  and,  to  Lindsay  Cowart's  thought, 
shutting  it  into  a  remote  past  as  well. 

He  arose  and  began  rearranging  their 
luggage.  "Do  you  want  these?"  he  in 
quired,  holding  up  a  bouquet  of  dahlias, 
scarlet  sage,  and  purple  petunias,  and 
thinking  of  only  one  answer  as  possible. 

"  I  will  take  them,"  she  said,  as  he 
stood  waiting  her  formal  consent  to  drop 
them  from  the  car  window.  Her  voice 
was  quite  as  usual,  but  something  in  her 
face  suggested  to  him  that  this  going 
away  from  her  childhood's  home  might  be 
a  different  thing  to  her  from  what  he  had 


90  Harper's  Novelettes 

conceived  it  to  be.  He  caught  the  touch 
of  tender  vindication  in  her  manner  as 
she  untied  the  cheap  red  ribbon  which 
held  the  flowers  together  and  rearranged 
them  into  two  bunches  so  that  the  jar 
ring  colors  might  no  longer  offend,  and 
felt  that  the  really  natural  thing  for  her 
to  do  was  to  weep,  and  that  she  only 
restrained  her  tears  for  his  sake.  Sixteen 
was  so  young!  His  heart  grew  warm 
and  brotherly  towards  her  youth  and  in 
experience;  but,  after  all,  how  infinitely 
better  that  she  should  have  cause  for  this 
passing  sorrow. 

He  left  her  alone,  but  not  for  long. 
He  was  eager  to  talk  with  her  of  the  plans 
about  which  he  had  been  writing  her 
the  two  years  since  he  himself  had  been 
a  student  at  Vaucluse,  of  the  future 
which  they  should  achieve  together.  It 
seemed  to  him  only  necessary  for  him  to 
show  her  his  point  of  view  to  have  her 
adopt  it  as  her  own;  and  he  believed, 
building  on  her  buoyancy  and  respon 
siveness  of  disposition,  that  nothing  he 
might  propose  would  be  beyond  the  scope 
of  her  courage. 

"  It  may  be  a  little  lonely  for  you  at 
first,"  he  told  her.  "  There  are  only  a 
handful  of  women  students  at  the  col 
lege,  and  all  of  them  much  older  than 


His  Sistcf  gi 

you;  but  it  is  your  studies  at  last  that 
are  the  really  important  thing-,  and  I  will 
help  you  with  them  all  I  can.  Mrs.  Ban 
croft  will  have  no  other  lodgers  and  there 
will  be  nothing  to  interrupt  our  work." 

"  And  the  money,  Lindsay  ?"  she  asked, 
a  little  anxiously. 

"What  I  have  will  carry  us  through 
this  year.  Next  summer  we  can  teach 
and  make  almost  enough  for  the  year 
after.  The  trustees  are  planning  to 
establish  a  fellowship  in  Greek,  and  if 
they  do  and  I  can  secure  it — and  Pro 
fessor  Wayland  thinks  I  can, — that  will 
make  us  safe  the  next  two  years  until 
you  are  through." 

"And  then?" 

He  straightened  up  buoyantly.  "  Then 
your  two  years  at  Vassar  and  mine  at 
Harvard,  with  some  teaching  thrown  in 
along  the  way,  of  course.  And  then  Eu 
rope — Greece — all  the  great  things !" 

She  smiled  with  him  in  his  enthusi 
asm.  "  You  are  used  to  such  bold 
thoughts.  It  is  too  high  a  flight  for 
me  all  at  once." 

"  It  will  not  be,  a  year  from  now,"  he 
declared,  confidently. 

A  silence  fell  between  them,  and  the 
noise  of  the  train  made  a  pleasant  ac-' 
companiment  to  his  thoughts  as  he 


92  Harper's  Novelettes 

sketched  in  detail  the  work  of  the  coming 
months.  But  always  as  a  background  to 
his  hopes  was  that  honorable  social 
position  which  he  meant  eventually  to 
achieve,  the  passion  for  which  was  a  part 
of  his  Southern  inheritance.  Little  as  he 
had  yet  participated  in  any  interests  out 
side  his  daily  tasks,  he  had  perceived  in 
the  old  college  town  its  deeply  grained 
traditions  of  birth  and  custom,  perceived 
and  respected  them,  and  discounted  the 
more  their  absence  in  the  sorry  village  he 
had  left.  Sometime  when  he  should  as 
sail  it,  the  exclusiveness  of  his  new  en 
vironment  might  beat  him  back  cruelly, 
but  thus  far  it  existed  for  him  only  as  a 
barrier  to  what  was  ultimately  precious 
and  desirable.  One  day  the  gates  would 
open  at  his  touch,  and  he  and  the  sis 
ter  of  his  heart  should  enter  their  right 
ful  heritage. 

The  afternoon  waned.  He  pointed  out 
side  the  car  window.  "  See  how  different 
all  this  is  from  the  part  of  the  State 
which  we  have  left,"  he  said.  "  The  land 
scape  is  still  rural,  but  what  mellowness 
it  has;  because  it  has  been  enriched  by  a 
larger,  more  generous  human  life.  One 
can  imagine  what  this  whole  section  must 
have  been  in  those  old  days,  before  the 
coming  of  war  and  desolation.  And  Vau- 


His  Sister  93 

eluse  was  the  flower,  the  centre  of  it  all !" 
His  eye  kindled.  "  Some  day  external 
prosperity  will  return,  and  then  Vau- 
cluse  and  her  ideals  will  be  needed  more 
than  ever;  it  is  she  who  must  hold  in 
check  the  commercial  spirit,  and  domi 
nate,  as  she  has  always  done,  the  ma 
terial  with  the  intellectual."  There  was 
a  noble  emotion  in  his  face,  reflecting  it 
self  in  the  younger  countenance  beside 
his  own.  Poor,  young,  unknown,  their 
hearts  thrilled  with  pride  in  their  State, 
with  the  possibility  that  they  also  should 
give  to  her  of  their  best  when  the  oppor 
tunity  should  be  theirs. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  old  town,"  Lindsay 
went  on  again.  "  Even  Wayland  says  so, 
— our  Greek  professor,  you  know."  His 
voice  thrilled  with  the  devotion  of  the 
hero-worshipper  as  he  spoke  the  name. 
"  He  is  a  Harvard  man,  and  has  seen  the 
best  of  everything,  and  even  he  has  felt 
the  charm  of  the  place;  he  told  me  so. 
You  will  feel  it,  too.  It  is  just  as  if  the 
little  town  and  the  college  together  had 
preserved  in  amber  all  that  was  finest  in 
our  Southern  life.  And  now  to  think  you 
and  I  are  to  share  in  all  its  riches !" 

His  early  consecration  to  such  a  pur 
pose,  the  toil  and  sacrifice  by  which  it  had 
been  achieved,  came  movingly  before  her; 


94  Harper's  Novelettes 

yet,  mingled  with  her  pride  in  him, 
something  within  her  pleaded  for  the 
things  which  he  rated  so  low.  "  It  used 
to  be  hard  for  you  at  home,  Lindsay," 
she  said,  softly. 

"  Yes,  it  was  hard."  His  face  flushed, 
"  I  never  really  lived  till  I  left  there.  I 
was  like  an  animal  caught  in  a  net,  like 
a  man  struggling  for  air.  You  can't 
know  what  it  is  to  me  now  to  be  with 
people  who  are  thinking  of  something 
else  than  of  how  to  make  a  few  dollars 
in  a  miserable  country  store." 

"  But  they  were  good  people  in  Bow- 
ersville,  Lindsay,"  she  urged,  with  gen 
tle  loyalty. 

"  I  am  sure  they  were,  if  you  say  so," 
he  agreed.  "  But  at  any  rate  we  are  done 
with  it  all  now."  He  laid  his  hand  over 
hers.  "  At  last  I  am  going  to  take  you 
into  our  own  dear  world." 

It  was,  after  all,  a  very  small  world  as  to 
its  actual  dimensions,  but  to  the  brother 
it  had  the  largeness  of  opportunity,  and 
to  Stella  it  seemed  infinitely  complex. 
She  found  security  at  first  only  in  fol 
lowing  minutely  the  programme  which 
Lindsay  had  laid  out  for  her.  It  was  his 
own  as  well,  and  simple  enough.  Study 
was  the  supreme  thing;  exercise  came  in 
as  a  necessity,  pleasure  only  as  the  rarest 


His  Sister  95 

incident.  She  took  all  things  cheerfully, 
after  her  nature,  but  after  two  or  three 
months  the  color  began  to  go  from  her 
cheeks,  the  elasticity  from  her  step;  nor 
was  her  class  standing,  though  creditable, 
quite  what  her  brother  had  expected  it 
to  be. 

Wayland  detained  him  one  day  in  his 
class-room.  "  Do  you  think  your  sister 
is  quite  happy  here,  Cowart?"  he  asked. 

The  boy  thrilled,  as  he  always  did  at 
any  special  evidence  of  interest  from 
such  a  source,  but  he  had  never  put  this 
particular  question  to  himself  and  had 
no  reply  at  hand. 

"I  have  never  thought  this  absolute 
surrender  to  books  the  wisest  thing  for 
you,"  Wayland  went  on ;  "  but  for  your 
sister  it  is  impossible.  She  was  formed 
for  companionship,  for  happiness,  not  for 
the  isolation  of  the  scholar.  Why  did 
you  not  put  her  into  one  of  the  girls' 
schools  of  the  State,  where  she  would 
have  had  associations  more  suited  to  her 
years  ?"  he  asked,  bluntly. 

Lindsay  could  scarcely  believe  that  he 
was  listening  to  the  young  professor 
whose  scholarly  attainments  seemed  to 
him  the  sum  of  what  was  most  desirable 
in  life.  "  Our  girls'  colleges  are  very 
superficial,"  he  answered ;  "  and  even  if 


96  Harper's  Novelettes 

they  were  not,  she  could  get  no  Greek  in 
any  of  them." 

"My  dear  boy,"  Wayland  said,  "the 
amount  of  Greek  which  your  sister  knows 
or  doesn't  know  will  always  be  a  very 
unimportant  matter;  she  has  things  that 
are  so  infinitely  more  valuable  to  give 
to  the  world.  And  deserves  so  much  bet 
ter  things  for  herself,"  he  added,  drawing 
together  his  texts  for  the  next  recitation. 

Lindsay  returned  to  Mrs.  Bancroft's 
quiet,  old-fashioned  house  in  a  sort  of 
daze.  "  Stella,"  he  said,  "  do  you  think 
you  enter  enough  into  the  social  side  of 
our  college  life  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "But  I  think 
neither  of  us  does." 

"  Well,  leave  me  out  of  the  count.  If 
T  get  through  my  Junior  year  as  I  ought, 
I  am  obliged  to  grind;  and  when  there  is 
any  time  left,  I  feel  that  I  must  have  it 
for  reading  in  the  library.  But  it  need 
n't  be  so  with  you.  Didn't  an  invita 
tion  come  to  you  for  the  reception  Fri 
day  evening?" 

Her  face  grew  wistful.  "I  don't  care 
to  go  to  things,  Lindsay,  unless  you  will 
go  with  me,"  she  said. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  his  way,  and  when 
once  she  made  it  possible,  opportunities 
for  social  pleasures  poured  in  upon  her. 


His  Sister  97 

As  Wayland  had  said,  she  was  formed 
for  friendship,  for  joy;  and  that  which 
was  her  own  came  to  her  unsought.  She 
was  by  nature  too  simple  and  sweet  to  be 
spoiled  by  the  attention  she  received; 
the  danger  perhaps  was  the  less  because 
she  missed  in  it  all  the  comradeship  of 
her  brother,  without  which  in  her  eyes 
the  best  things  lost  something  of  their 
charm.  It  was  not  merely  personal  ambi 
tion  which  kept  him  at  his  books;  the 
passion  of  the  scholar  was  upon  him  and 
made  him  count  all  moments  lost  that 
were  spent  away  from  them.  Sometimes 
Stella  sought  him  as  he  pored  over  them 
alone,  and  putting  her  arm  shyly  about 
him,  would  beg  that  he  would  go  with 
her  for  a  walk,  or  a  ride  on  the  river; 
but  almost  always  his  answer  was  the 
same:  "I  am  so  busy,  Stella  dear;  if 
you  knew  how  much  I  have  to  do  you 
would  not  even  ask  me." 

There  was  one  interruption,  indeed, 
which  the  young  student  never  refused. 
Sometimes  their  Greek  professor  dropped 
in  at  Mrs.  Bancroft's  to  bring  or  to  ask 
for  a  book;  sometimes,  with  the  lovely 
coming  of  the  spring,  he  would  join 
them  as  they  were  leaving  the  college 
grounds,  and  lead  them  away  into  some 
of  the  woodland  walks,  rich  in  wild 

7     D.G. 


98  Harper's  Novelettes 

flowers,  that  environed  the  little  town. 
Such  hours  seemed  to  both  brother  and 
sister  to  have  a  flavor,  a  brightness, 
quite  beyond  what  ordinary  life  could 
give.  Wayland,  too,  must  have  found  in 
them  his  own  share  of  pleasure,  for  he 
made  them  more  frequent  as  the  months 
went  by. 

It  was  in  the  early  spring  of  her 
second  year  at  Vaucluse  that  the  acci 
dent  occurred.  The  poor  lad  who  had 
taken  her  out  in  the  boat  was  almost  be 
side  himself  with  grief  and  remorse. 

"  We  had  enjoyed  the  afternoon  so 
much,"  he  said,  trying  to  tell  how  it  had 
happened.  "  I  thought  I  had  never  seen 
her  so  happy,  so  gay, — but  you  know  she 
was  that  always.  It  was  nearly  sunset, 
and  I  remember  how  she  spoke  of  the  light 
as  we  saw  it  through  the  open  spaces  of 
the  woods  and  as  it  slanted  across  the 
water.  Farther  down  the  river  the  yellow 
jasmine  was  beginning  to  open.  A  beech- 
tree  that  leaned  out  over  the  water  was 
hung  with  it.  She  wanted  some,  and  I 
guided  the  boat  under  the  branches.  I 
meant  to  get  it  for  her  myself,  but  she 
was  reaching  up  after  it  almost  before  I 
knew  it.  The  bough  that  had  the  finest 
blossoms  on  it  was  just  beyond  her  reach, 


His  Sister  99 

and  while  I  steadied  the  boat,  she  pulled 
it  towards  her  by  one  of  the  vines  hang 
ing  from  it.  She  must  have  put  too  much 
weight  on  it — 

"  It  all  happened  so  quickly.  I  called 
to  her  to  be  careful,  but  while  I  was  say 
ing  the  words  the  vine  snapped  and  she 
fell  back  with  such  force  that  the  boat 
tipped,  and  in  a  second  we  were  both  in 
the  water.  I  knew  1  could  not  swim,  but 
I  hoped  that  the  water  so  near  the  bank 
would  be  shallow;  and  it  was,  but  there 
was  a  deep  hole  under  the  roots  of 
the  tree." 

He  could  get  no  further.  Poor  lad !  the 
wonder  was  that  he  had  not  been  drowned 
himself.  A  negro  ploughing  in  the  field 
near  by  saw  the  accident  and  ran  to  his 
help,  catching  him  as  he  was  sinking  for 
the  third  time.  Stella  never  rose  after 
she  went  down ;  her  clothing  had  been  en 
tangled  in  the  roots  of  the  beech. 

Sorrow  for  the  young  life  cut  off  so 
untimely  was  deep  and  universal,  and 
sought  to  manifest  itself  in  tender  minis 
trations  to  the  brother  so  cruelly  bereaved. 
But  Lindsay  shrank  from  all  offices  of 
sympathy,  and  except  for  seeking  now 
and  then  Wayland's  silent  companionship, 
bore  his  grief  alone. 

The  college  was  too  poor  to  establish 


ioo  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  fellowship  in  Greek,  but  the  adjunct 
professor  in  mathematics  resigned,  and 
young  Cowart  was  elected  to  his  place, 
with  the  proviso  that  he  give  two  months 
further  study  to  the  subject  in  the  sum 
mer  school  of  some  university.  Wayland 
decided  which  by  taking  him  back  with 
him  to  Cambridge,  where  he  showed  the 
boy  an  admirable  friendship. 

Lindsay  applied  himself  to  his  special 
studies  with  the  utmost  diligence.  It  was 
impossible,  moreover,  that  his  new  sur 
roundings  should  not  appeal  to  his 
tastes  in  many  directions;  but  in  spite 
of  his  response  to  these  larger  oppor 
tunities,  his  friend  discerned  that  the 
wound  which  the  young  man  kept  so 
carefully  hidden  had  not,  after  all  these 
weeks,  begun  even  slightly  to  heal. 

Late  on  an  August  night,  impelled  as 
he  often  was  to  share  the  solitude  which 
Lindsay  affected,  he  sought  him  at  his 
lodgings,  and  not  finding  him,  followed 
what  he  knew  was  a  favorite  walk  with 
the  boy,  and  came  upon  him  half  hidden 
under  the  shadows  of  an  elm  in  the 
woods  that  skirted  Mount  Auburn.  "I 
thought  you  might  be  here,"  he  said,  ta 
king  the  place  that  Lindsay  made  for  him 
on  the  seat.  Many  words  were  never 
necessary  between  them. 


His  Sister  101 

The  moon  was  full  and  the  sky  cloud 
less,  and  for  some  time  they  sat  in  silence, 
yielding  to  the  tranquil  loveliness  of  the 
scene  and  to  that  inner  experience  of 
the  soul  brooding  over  each,  and  more 
inscrutable  than  the  fathomless  vault 
above  them. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  never  get  used  to  a 
midnight  that  is  still  and  at  the  same 
time  lustrous,  as  this  is  to-night,"  Way- 
land  said.  "  The  sense  of  its  uniqueness 
is  as  fresh  whenever  it  is  spread  before  us 
as  if  we  had  never  seen  it  before." 

It  was  but  a  part  of  what  he  meant. 
He  was  thinking  how  sorrow,  the  wide 
sense  of  personal  loss,  was  in  some 
way  like  the  pervasiveness,  the  voice 
less  speech,  of  this  shadowed  radiance 
around  them. 

He  drew  a  little  nearer  the  relaxed  and 
slender  figure  beside  his  own.  "  It  is  of 
her  you  are  thinking,  Lindsay,"  he  said, 
gently,  and  mentioning  for  the  first  time 
the  young  man's  loss.  "  All  that  you  see 
seems  saturated  with  her  memory.  I 
think  it  will  always  be  so — scenes  of  ex 
ceptional  beauty,  moments  of  high  emo 
tion,  will  always  bring  her  back." 

The  boy's  response  came  with  difficulty : 
"  Perhaps  so.  I  do  not  know.  I  think  the 
thought  of  her  is  always  with  me." 


102  Harper's  Novelettes 

"If  so,  it  should  be  for  strength, 
for  comfort,"  his  friend  pleaded.  "  She 
herself  brought  only  gladness  wherever 
she  came." 

There  was  something  unusual  in  his 
voice,  something  that  for  a  moment  raised 
a  vague  questioning  in  Lindsay's  mind; 
but  absorbed  as  he  was  in  his  own  sadness, 
it  eluded  his  feeble  inquiry.  To  what 
Wayland  had  said  he  could  make  no  reply. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  the  apparent  waste  of  a 
life  so  beautiful  that  seems  to  you  so  in 
tolerable — "  He  felt  the  strong  man's 
impulse  to  arrest  an  irrational  grief,  and 
groped  for  the  assurance  he  desired. 
"  Yet,  Lindsay,  we  know  things  are  not 
wasted;  not  in  the  natural  world,  not  in 
the  world  of  the  spirit."  But  on  the 
last  words  his  voice  lapsed  miserably,  and 
he  half  rose  to  go. 

Lindsay  caught  his  arm  and  drew  him 
back.  "Don't  go  yet,"  he  said,  broken 
ly.  "  I  know  you  think  it  would  help 
me  if  I  would  talk  about — Stella;  if  I 
should  tell  it  all  out  to  you.  I  thank 
you  for  being  willing  to  listen.  Perhaps 
it  will  help  me." 

He  paused,  seeking  for  some  words  in 
which  to  express  the  sense  of  poverty 
which  scourged  him.  Of  all  who  had 
loved  his  sister,  he  himself  was  left  poor- 


His  Sister  103 

estl  Others  had  taken  freely  of  her 
friendship,  had  delighted  themselves  in 
her  face,  her  words,  her  smile,  had  all 
these  things  for  memories.  He  had  been 
separated  from  her,  in  part  by  the  hard 
conditions  of  their  youth,  and  at  the  last, 
when  they  had  been  together,  by  his  own 
will.  Oh,  what  had  been  her  inner  life 
during  these  last  two  years,  when  it  had 
gone  on  beside  his  own,  while  he  was  too 
busy  to  attend? 

But  the  self-reproach  was  too  bitter  for 
utterance  to  even  the  kindest  of  friends. 
"I  thought  I  could  tell  you,"  he  said  at 
last,  "  but  I  can't.  Oh,  Professor  Way- 
land,"  he  cried,  "  there  is  an  element  in 
my  grief  that  is  peculiar  to  itself,  that 
no  one  else  in  sorrow  ever  had !" 

"  I  think  every  mourner  on  earth  would 
say  that,  Lindsay."  Again  the  younger 
man  discerned  the  approach  of  a  mystery, 
but  again  he  left  it  unchallenged, 
i  The  professor  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Good 
night,"  he  said;  "unless  you  will  go 
back  with  me.  Even  with  such  moon 
light  as  this,  one  must  sleep."  He  had 
dropped  to  that  kind  level  of  the  common 
place  by  which  we  spare  ourselves  and 
one  another. 

"'Where  the  love  light  never,  never  dies,'" 


104  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  boy's  voice  ringing  out  blithely 
through  the  drip  and  dampness  of  the 
winter  evening  marked  his  winding  route 
across  the  college  grounds.  Lindsay  Co- 
wart,  busy  at  his  study  table,  listened 
without  definite  effort  and  placed  the 
singer  as  the  lad  newly  come  from  the 
country.  He  could  have  identified  any 
other  of  the  Vaucluse  students  by  connec 
tions  as  slight — Marchman  by  his  whis 
tling,  tender,  elusive  sounds,  flute  notes 
sublimated,  heard  only  when  the  night 
was  late  and  the  campus  still;  others  by 
tricks  of  voice,  fragments  of  laughter,  by 
their  footfalls,  even,  on  the  narrow  brick 
walk  below  his  study  window.  Such  the 
easy  proficiency  of  affection. 

Attention  to  the  lad's  singing  suddenly 
was  lifted  above  the  subconscious.  The 
simple  melody  had  entangled  itself  in 
some  forgotten  association  of  the  pro 
fessor's  boyhood,  seeking  to  marshal 
which  before  him,  he  received  the  full 
force  of  the  single  line  sung  in  direct 
ear-shot.  Like  the  tune,  the  words  also 
became  a  challenge;  pricked  through  the 
unregarded  heaviness  in  which  he  was 
plying  his  familiar  task,  and  demanded 
that  he  should  name  its  cause. 

For  him  the  love  light  of  his  marriage 
had  been  dead  so  long!  No,  not  dead; 


His  Sister  105 

nothing  so  dignified,  so  tragic.  Burnt 
down,  smoldered;  suffocated  by  the  hate 
ful  dust  of  the  commonplace.  There  was 
a  touch  of  contempt  in  the  effort  with 
which  he  dismissed  the  matter  from  his 
mind  and  turned  back  to  his  work.  And 
yet,  he  stopped  a  moment  longer  to  think, 
for  him  life  without  the  light  of  love 
fell  so  far  below  its  best  achievement ! 

The  front  of  his  desk  was  covered  with 
the  papers  in  mathematics  over  which  he 
had  spent  his  evenings  for  more  than  a 
week.  Most  of  them  had  been  corrected 
and  graded,  with  the  somewhat  full  com 
ment  or  elucidation  here  and  there  which 
had  made  his  progress  slow.  He  ex 
amined  a  half-dozen  more,  and  then  in 
sheer  mental  revolt  against  the  subject, 
slipped  them  under  the  rubber  bands  with 
others  of  their  kind  and  dropped  the  neat 
packages  out  of  his  sight  into  one  of  the 
drawers  of  the  desk.  Wayland's  book  on 
Greece,  the  fruit  of  eighteen  months'  so 
journ  there,  had  come  through  the  mail 
on  the  same  day  when  the  calculus  papers 
had  been  handed  in,  and  he  had  read  it 
through  at  once,  not  to  be  teased  in 
tolerably  by  its  invitation.  He  had  mas 
tered  the  text,  avid  through  the  long 
winter  night,  but  he  picked  it  up  again 
now,  and  for  a  little  while  studied  the 


io6  Harper's  Novelettes 

sumptuous  illustrations.  How  long  Way- 
land  had  been  away  from  Vaucluse,  how 
much  of  enrichment  had  come  to  him  in 
the  years  since  he  had  left!  He  himself 
might  have  gone  also,  to  larger  opportuni 
ties — he  had  chosen  to  remain,  held  by  a 
sentiment !  The  professor  closed  the  book 
with  a  little  sigh,  and  taking  it  to  a 
small  shelf  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  stood  it  with  a  half-dozen  others 
worthy  of  such  association. 

Returning,  he  got  together  before  him 
the  few  Greek  authors  habitually  in 
hand's  reach,  whether  handled  or  not,  and 
from  a  compartment  of  his  desk  took  out 
several  sheets  of  manuscript,  metrical 
translations  from  favorite  passages  in  the 
tragedists  or  the  short  poems  of  the  An 
thology.  Like  the  rest  of  the  Vaucluse 
professors — a  mere  handful  they  were, — 
he  was  straitened  by  the  hard  exactions  of 
class-room  work,  and  the  book  which  he 
hoped  sometime  to  publish  grew  slowly. 
How  far  he  was  in  actual  miles  from  the 
men  who  were  getting  their  thoughts  into 
print,  how  much  farther  in  environment! 
Things  which  to  them  were  the  common 
places  of  a  scholar's  life  were  to  him  im 
possible  luxuries;  few  even  of  their 
books  found  their  way  to  his  shelves.  At 
least  the  original  sources  of  inspiration 


Mis  Sister  107 

were  his,  and  sometimes  he  felt  that  his 
verses  were  not  without  spirit,  flavor. 

He  took  up  a  little  volume  of  Theo 
critus,  which  opened  easily  at  the  Seventh 
Idyl,  and  began  to  read  aloud.  Half-way 
through  the  poem  the  door  opened  and 
his  wife  entered.  He  did  not  immediately 
adjust  himself  to  the  interruption,  and 
she  remained  standing  a  few  moments 
in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"  Thank  you ;  I  believe  I  will  be  seated," 
she  said,  the  sarcasm  in  her  words  care 
fully  excluded  from  her  voice. 

He  wondered  that  she  should  find  in 
terest  in  so  sorry  a  game.  "I  thought 
you  felt  enough  at  home  in  here  to 
sit  down  without  being  asked,"  he  said, 
rising,  and  trying  to  speak  lightly. 

She  took  the  rocking-chair  he  brought 
for  her  and  leaned  back  in  it  without 
speaking.  Her  maroon-colored  evening 
gown  suggested  that  whoever  planned  it 
had  been  somewhat  straitened  by  econ 
omy,  but  it  did  well  by  her  rich  com 
plexion  and  creditable  figure.  Her  fea- 
tuies  were  creditable  too,  the  dark  hair  a 
little  too  heavy,  perhaps,  and  the  expres 
sion,  defined  as  it  is  apt  to  be  when  one 
is  thirty-five,  not  wholly  satisfying.  In 
truth,  the  countenance,  like  the  gown, 
suffered  a  little  from  economy,  a  sparse- 


io8  Harper's  Novelettes 

ness  of  the  things  one  loves  best  in  a 
woman's  face.  Half  the  sensitiveness  be 
longing  to  her  husband's  eyes  and  mouth 
would  have  made  her  beautiful. 

"It  is  a  pity  the  Barkers  have  such  a 
bad  night  for  their  party,"  Cowart  said. 

"The  reception  is  at  the  Fieldings';" 
and  again  he  felt  himself  rebuked. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  think  much  about 
the  matter  after  you  told  me  the  Dilling- 
hams  were  coming  by  for  you  in  their 
carriage.  Fortunately  neither  family 
holds  us  college  people  to  very  strict 
social  account." 

"  They  have  their  virtues,  even  if  they 
are  so  vulgar  as  to  be  rich." 

"  Why,  I  believe  I  had  just  been  think 
ing,  before  you  came  in,  that  it  is  only 
the  rich  who  have  any  virtues  at  all."  He 
managed  to  speak  genially,  but  the  con 
sciousness  that  she  was  waiting  for  him  to 
make  conversation,  as  she  had  waited  for 
the  chair,  stiffened  upon  him  like  frost. 

He  cast  about  for  something  to  say, 
but  the  one  interest  which  he  would  have 
preferred  to  keep  to  himself  was  all  that 
presented  itself  to  his  grasp.  "  I  have 
often  thought,"  he  suggested,  "  that  if 
only  we  were  in  sight  of  the  Gulf,  our 
landscape  in  early  summer  might  not  be 
very  unlike  that  of  ancient  Greece."  She 


His  Sister  109 

looked  at  him  a  little  blankly,  and  he 
drew  one  of  his  books  nearer  and  began 
turning  its  leaves. 

"  I  thought  you  were  correcting  your 
mathematics  papers." 

"  I  am,  or  have  been ;  but  I  am  reading 
Theocritus,  too." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  anything  in  a  day 
like  this  to  make  anybody  think  of 
summer.  The  dampness  goes  to  your 
very  marrow." 

"  It  isn't  the  day ;  it's  the  poetry. 
That's  the  good  of  there  being  poetry." 

She  skipped  his  parenthesis.  "  And 
you  keep  this  room  as  cold  as  a  vault." 
Not  faultfinding,  but  a  somewhat  irri 
tating  concern  for  his  comfort  was  in 
the  complaint. 

She  went  to  the  hearth  and  in  her 
efficient  way  shook  down  the  ashes  from 
the  grate  and  heaped  it  with  coal.  A 
cabinet  photograph  of  a  girl  in  her  early 
teens,  which  had  the  appearance  of  hav 
ing  just  been  put  there,  was  supported 
against  a  slender  glass  vase.  Mrs.  Co- 
wart  took  it  up  and  examined  it  critic 
ally.  "I  don't  think  this  picture  does 
Arnoldina  justice,"  she  said.  "  One  of 
the  eyes  seems  to  droop  a  little,  and  the 
mouth  looks  sad.  Arnoldina  never  did 
look  sad." 


no  Harper's  Novelettes 

They  were  on  common  ground  now,  and 
he  could  speak  without  constraint.  "I 
hadn't  observed  that  it  looked  sad.  She 
seems  somehow  to  have  got  a  good  deal 
older  since  September." 

"  She  is  maturing,  of  course."  All  a 
mother's  pride  and  approbation  were  in 
the  reserve  of  the  speech.  To  have  put 
more  definitely  her  estimate  of  the  sweet 
young  face  would  have  been  a  clumsy 
thing  in  comparison. 

Lindsay's  countenance  lighted  up.  He 
arose,  and  standing  by  his  wife,  looked 
over  her  shoulder  as  she  held  the  photo 
graph  to  the  light.  "  Do  you  know,  Ger 
trude,"  he  said,  "  there  is  something  in 
her  face  that  reminds  me  of  Stella?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  see  it,"  she  an 
swered,  indifferently,  replacing  the  photo 
graph  and  returning  to  her  chair.  The 
purpose  which  had^  brought  her  to  the 
room  rose  to  her  face.  "  I  stopped  at  the 
warehouse  this  afternoon,"  she  said,  "  and 
had  a  talk  with  father.  Jamieson  really 
goes  to  Mobile — the  first  of  next  month. 
The  place  is  open  to  you  if  you  want  it." 

"  But,  Gertrude,  how  should  I  possibly 
want  it?"  he  expostulated. 

"You  would  be  a  member  of  the  firm. 
You  might  as  well  be  making  money  as 
the  rest  of  them." 


His  Sister  m 

He  offered  no  comment. 

"  It  is  not  now  like  it  was  when  you 
were  made  professor.  The  town  has  be 
come  a  commercial  centre  and  its  ed 
ucational  interests  have  declined.  The 
professors  will  always  have  their  social 
position,  of  course,  but  they  cannot  hope 
for  anything  more." 

"  It  is  not  merely  Vaucluse,  but  the 
South,  that  is  passing  into  this  phase. 
But  economic  independence  has  become  a 
necessity.  When  once  it  is  achieved,  our 
people  will  turn  to  higher  things." 

"  Not  soon  enough  to  benefit  you  and 
me." 

"  Probably  not." 

"  Then  why  waste  your  talents  on  the 
college,  when  the  best  years  of  your  life 
are  still  before  you?" 

"  I  am  not  teaching  for  money,  Ger 
trude."  He  hated  putting  into  the  bald 
phrase  his  consecration  to  his  ideals  for 
the  young  men  of  his  State;  he  hated 
putting  it  into  words  at  all;  but  some 
thing  in  his  voice  told  her  that  the  argu 
ment  was  finished. 

There  was  a  sound  of  carriage  wheels 
on  the  drive.  He  arose  and  began  to 
assist  her  with  her  wraps.  "  It  is  too 
bad  for  you  to  be  dependent  on  even  such 
nice  escorts  as  the  Dillinghams  are,"  he 


H2  Harper's  Novelettes 

solaced,  recovering  himself.  "  We  college 
folk  are  a  sorry  lot." 

But  when  she  was  gone,  the  mood  for 
composition  which  an  hour  before  had 
seemed  so  near  had  escaped  him,  and  he 
put  away  his  books  and  manuscript, 
standing  for  a  while,  a  little  chilled  in 
mind  and  body,  before  the  grate  and 
looking  at  the  photograph  on  the  mantel. 
While  he  did  so  the  haunting  likeness 
he  had  seen  grew  more  distinct  and  by 
degrees  another  face  overspread  that  of 
his  young  daughter,  the  face  of  the  sister 
he  had  loved  and  lost. 

With  a  sudden  impulse  he  crossed  the 
room  to  an  old-fashioned  mahogany  secre 
tary,  opened  its  slanting  lid,  and  unlock 
ing  with  some  difficulty  a  small  inner 
drawer,  returned  with  it  to  his  desk. 
Several  packages  of  letters  tied  with 
faded  ribbon  filled  the  small  receptacle, 
but  they  struck  upon  him  with  the 
strangeness  of  something  utterly  forgot 
ten.  The  pieces  of  ribbon  had  once  held 
for  him  each  its  own  association  of  time 
or  place;  now  he  could  only  remember, 
looking  down  upon  them  with  tender 
gaze,  that  they  had  been  Stella's,  worn  in 
her  hair,  or  at  her  throat  or  waist.  Sim 
ple  and  inexpensive  he  saw  they  were. 
Arnoldina  would  not  have  looked  at  them. 


His  Sister  113 

Overcoming  something  of  reluctance, 
he  took  one  of  the  packages  from  its 
place.  It  contained  the  letters  he  had 
found  in  her  writing-table  after  her 
death,  most  of  them  written  after  she 
had  come  to  Vaucluse  by  her  stepmother 
and  the  friends  she  had  left  in  the  vil 
lage.  He  knew  there  was  nothing  in  any 
of  them  she  would  have  withheld  from 
him;  in  reading  them  he  was  merely  ta 
king  back  something  from  the  vanished 
years  which,  if  not  looked  at  now,  would 
perish  utterly  from  earth.  How  affecting 
they  were — these  utterances  of  true  and 
humble  hearts,  written  to  one  equally 
true  and  good !  His  youth  and  hers  in 
the  remote  country  village  rose  before 
him;  not  now,  as  once,  pinched  and  nar 
row,  but  as  salutary,  even  gracious.  He 
could  but  feel  how  changed  his  standards 
had  become  since  then,  how  different  his 
measure  of  the  great  and  the  small  of  life. 

Suddenly,  as  he  was  thus  borne  back 
into  the  past,  the  old  sorrow  sprang  upon 
him,  and  he  bowed  before  it.  The  old  bit 
ter  cry  which  he  had  been  able  to  utter 
to  no  human  consoler  swept  once  more  to 
his  lips :  "  Oh,  Stella,  Stella,  you  died  be 
fore  1  really  knew  you;  your  brother, 
who  should  have  known  and  loved  you 
best !  And  now  it  is  too  late,  too  late." 
8  D-G. 


H4  Harper's  Novelettes 

He  sent  out  as  of  old  his  voiceless  call 
to  one  afar  off,  in  some  land  where  her 
whiteness,  her  budding  soul,  had  found 
their  rightful  place;  but  even  as  he  did 
so,  his  thought  of  her  seemed  to  be  grow 
ing  clearer.  From  that  far,  reverenced, 
but  unimagined  sphere  she  was  coming 
back  to  the  range  of  his  apprehension,  to 
comradeship  in  the  life  which  they  once 
had  shared  together. 

He  trembled  with  the  hope  of  a  fuller 
attainment,  lifting  his  bowed  head  and 
taking  another  package  of  the  letters 
from  their  place.  Her  letters!  He  had 
begged  them  of  her  friends  in  his  des 
perate  sense  of  ignorance,  his  longing  to 
make  good  something  of  all  that  he  had 
lost  in  those  last  two  years  of  her  life. 
What  an  innocent  life  it  was  that  was 
spread  before  him;  and  how  young, — 
oh,  how  young!  And  it  was  a  hap 
py  life.  He  was  astonished,  after  all 
his  self-reproach,  to  realize  how  happy; 
to  find  himself  smiling  with  her  in  some 
girlish  drollery  such  as  used  to  come  so 
readily  to  her  lips.  He  could  detect,  too, 
how  the  note  of  gladness,  how  her  whole 
life,  indeed,  had  grown  richer  in  the  larger 
existence  of  Vaucluse.  At  last  he  could 
be  comforted  that,  however  it  had  ended, 
it  was  he  who  had  made  it  hers. 


His  Sister  115 

He  had  been  reading  eagerly,  too  eager 
ly,  and  under  the  pressure  of  emotion 
was  constrained  to  rise  and  walk  the  floor, 
sinking  at  last  into  his  armchair  and 
gazing  with  unseeing  eyes  upon  the  ruddy 
coals  in  the  grate.  That  lovely  life, 
which  he  had  thought  could  never  in  its 
completeness  be  his,  was  rebuilt  before  his 
vision  from  the  materials  which  she  her 
self  had  left.  What  he  had  believed  to  be 
loss,  bitter,  unspeakable  even  to  himself, 
had  in  these  few  hours  of  the  night  be 
come  wealth. 

His  quickened  thought  moved  on  from 
plane  to  plane.  He  scanned  the  present 
conditions  of  his  life,  and  saw  with  clari 
fied  vision  how  good  they  were.  What  it 
was  given  him  to  do  for  his  students,  at 
least  what  he  was  trying  to  do  for  them; 
the  preciousness  of  their  regard ;  the  long 
friendship  with  his  colleagues;  the  asso 
ciations  with  the  little  community  in 
which  his  lot  was  cast,  limited  in  some 
directions  as  they  might  be;  the  fair  de 
mesne  of  Greek  literature  in  which  his 
feet  were  so  much  at  home;  his  own 
literary  gift,  even  if  a  slender  one;  his 
dear,  dear  child. 

And  Gertrude?  Under  the  invigora- 
tion  of  his  mood  a  situation  which  had 
long  seemed  unamenable  to  change  re- 


n6  Harper's  Novelettes 

solved  itself  into  new  and  simpler  propor 
tions.  The  worthier  aspects  of  his  home 
life,  the  finer  traits  of  his  wife's  charac 
ter,  stood  before  him  as  proofs  of  what 
might  yet  be.  His  memory  had  kept  no 
record  of  the  fact  that  when  in  the  first 
year  of  his  youthful  sorrow,  sick  for  com 
fort  and  believing  her  all  tenderness,  he 
had  married  her,  to  find  her  impatient  of 
his  grief,  nor  of  the  many  times  since 
when  she  had  appeared  almost  wilfully 
blind  to  his  ideals  and  purposes.  His 
judgment  held  only  this,  that  she  had 
never  understood  him.  For  this  he  had 
seldom  blamed  her;  but  to-night  he 
blamed  himself.  Instead  of  shrinking 
away  sensitively,  keeping  the  vital  part 
of  his  life  to  himself  and  making  what 
he  could  of  it  alone,  he  should  have  set 
himself  steadily  to  create  a  place  for  it 
in  her  understanding  and  sympathy. 
Was  not  a  perfect  married  love  worth  the 
minor  sacrifices  as  well  as  the  supreme 
surrender  from  which  he  believed  that 
neither  of  them  would  have  shrunk? 

He  returned  to  his  desk  and  began  to 
rearrange  the  contents  of  the  little 
drawer.  Among  them  was  a  small  sandal- 
wood  box  which  had  been  their  mother's, 
and  which  Stella  had  prized  with  special 
fondness.  He  had  never  opened  it  since 


His  Sister  117 

her  death,  but  as  lie  lifted  it  now  the 
frail  clasp  gave  way,  the  lid  fell  back, 
and  the  contents  slipped  upon  the  desk. 
They  were  few:  a  ring,  a  thin  gold 
locket  containing  the  miniatures  of  their 
father  and  mother,  a  small  tintype  of 
himself  taken  when  he  first  left  home, 
and  two  or  three  notes  addressed  in  a 
handwriting  which  he  recognized  as  Way- 
land's.  He  replaced  them  with  reverent 
touch,  turning  away  even  in  thought 
from  what  he  had  never  meant  to  see. 

By  and  by  he  heard  in  the  distance  the 
roll  of  carriages  returning  from  the 
Fieldings'  reception.  He  replenished  the 
fire  generously,  found  a  long  cloak  in  the 
closet  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  and  waited 
the  sound  of  wheels  before  his  own  door. 
"  The  rain  has  grown  heavier,"  he  said, 
drawing  the  cloak  around  his  wife  as  she 
descended  from  the  carriage.  Something 
in  his  manner  seemed  to  envelop  her. 
He  brought  her  into  the  study  and  seated 
her  before  the  fire.  She  had  expected  to 
find  the  house  silent;  the  glow  and 
warmth  of  the  room  were  grateful  after 
the  chill  and  darkness  outside,  her  hus 
band's  presence  after  that  vague  sense 
of  futility  which  the  evening's  gayety 
had  left  upon  her. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell  you  about 


n8  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  party,"  she  said,  a  little  wearily; 
"  but  if  you  don't  mind,  I  will  wait  till 
breakfast.  Everybody  was  there,  of 
course,  and  it  was  all  very  fine,  as  we  all 
knew  it  would  be.  I  hope  you've  enjoyed 
your  Latin  poets  more." 

"  They  are  Greek,  dear,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  been  making  translations  from  some 
of  them  now  and  then.  Some  day  we 
will  take  a  day  off  and  then  I'll  read 
them  to  you.  But  neither  the  party  nor 
the  poets  to-night.  See,  it  is  almost 
two  o'clock." 

"  I  knew  it  must  be  late.  But  you 
look  as  fresh  as  a  child  that  has  just 
waked  from  sleep." 

"  Perhaps  I  have  just  waked." 

They  rose  to  go  up-stairs.  "I  will  go 
in  front  and  make  a  light  in  our  room 
while  you  turn  off  the  gas  in  the  hall." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  after  she 
had  gone  out  and  turned  to  a  page  in 
the  Greek  Anthology  for  a  single  stanza. 
Shelley's  translation  was  written  in  pen 
cil  beside  it: 

Thou    wert    the    morning    star    among    the 

living, 

Ere  thy  fair  light  had  fled; 
Now,    having    died,    thou    art    as    Hesperus 

giving 
New  splendor  to  the  dead. 


The  Perfect  Year 

BY   ELEANOR   A.    HALLOWELL 

WHEN   Dolly   Leonard   died,    on 
the    night    of    my    debutante 
party,    our    little    community 
was  aghast.    If  I  live  to  be  a  thousand, 
I    shall    never    outgrow    the    paralyzing 
shock  of  that  disaster.    I  think  that  the 
girls  in  our  younger  set  never  fully  re 
covered  from  it. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  we  got  the  news. 
Things  had  been  jolly  and  bustling  all 
the  afternoon.  The  house  was  filled  with 
florists  and  caterers,  and  I  had  gone  to 
my  room  to  escape  the  final  responsi 
bilities  of  the  occasion.  There  were 
seven  of  us  girl  chums  dressing  in  my 
room,  and  we  were  lolling  round  in 
various  stages  of  lace  and  ruffles  when 
the  door-bell  rang.  Partly  out  of  con 
sideration  for  the  tired  servants,  and 
partly  out  of  nervous  curiosity  incited  by 
the  day's  influx  of  presents  and  bouquets, 
I  slipped  into  my  pink  eider-down  wrapper 


120  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  ran  down  to  the  door.  The  hall  was 
startlingly  sweet  with  roses.  Indeed,  the 
whole  house  was  a  perfect  bower  of  leaf 
and  blossom,  and  I  suppose  I  did  look 
elfish  as  I  ran,  for  a  gruff  old  workman 
peered  up  at  me  and  smiled,  and  muttered 
something  about  "  pinky-posy " — and  I 
know  it  did  not  seem  impertinent  to  me 
at  the  time. 

At  the  door,  in  the  chill  blast  of  the 
night,  stood  our  little  old  gray  postman 
with  some  letters  in  his  hand.  "  Oh !" 
I  said,  disappointed,  "just  letters." 

The  postman  looked  at  me  a  trifle 
queerly — I  thought  it  was  my  pink  wrap 
per, — and  he  said,  "  Don't  worry  about 
*  just  letters  ' ;  Dolly  Leonard  is  dead !" 

"Dead?"  I  gasped.  "Dead?"  and  I 
remember  how  I  reeled  back  against  the 
open  door  and  stared  out  with  horror- 
stricken  eyes  across  the  common  to  Dolly 
Leonard's  house,  where  every  window  was 
blazing  with  calamity. 

"Dead?"  I  gasped  again.  "Dead? 
What  happened  ?" 

The  postman  eyed  me  with  quizzical 
fatherliness.  "Ask  your  mother,"  he 
answered,  reluctantly,  and  I  turned  and 
groped  my  way  leaden-footed  up  the 
stairs,  muttering,  "  Oh,  mother,  mother, 
I  don't  need  to  ask  you." 


The  Perfect  Year  121 

When  I  got  back  to  my  room  at  last 
through  a  tortuous  maze  of  gaping  work 
men  and  sickening  flowers,  three  startled 
girls  jumped  up  to  catch  me  as  I  stag 
gered  across  the  threshold.  I  did  not 
faint,  I  did  not  cry  out.  I  just  sat  hud 
dled  on  the  floor  rocking  myself  to  and 
fro,  and  mumbling,  as  through  a  mouth 
ful  of  sawdust :  "  Dolly  Leonard  is  dead. 
Dolly  Leonard  is  dead.  Dolly  Leonard 
is  dead." 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  too  fully 
the  scene  that  followed.  There  were 
seven  of  us,  you  know,  and  we  were  only 
eighteen,  and  no  young  person  of  our 
acquaintance  had  ever  died  before.  In 
deed,  only  one  aged  death  had  ever  dis 
turbed  our  personal  life  history,  and 
even  that  remote  catastrophe  had  sent 
us  scampering  to  each  other's  beds  a 
whole  winter  long,  for  the  individual  fear 
of  "  seeing  things  at  night." 

"Dolly  Leonard  is  dead."  I  can  feel 
myself  yet  in  that  huddled  news-heap 
on  the  floor.  A  girl  at  the  mirror 
dropped  her  hand-glass  with  a  shivering 
crash.  Some  one  on  the  sofa  screamed. 
The  only  one  of  us  who  was  dressed  be 
gan  automatically  to  unfasten  her  lace 
collar  and  strip  off  her  silken  gown,  and 
I  can  hear  yet  the  soft  lush  sound  of  a 


122  Harper's  Novelettes 

folded  sash,  and  the  strident  click  of  the 
little  French  stays  that  pressed  too  close 
on  a  heaving  breast. 

Then  some  one  threw  wood  on  the 
fire  with  a  great  bang,  and  then  more 
wood  and  more  wood,  and  we  crowd 
ed  round  the  hearth  and  scorched  our 
faces  and  hands,  but  we  could  not  get 
warm  enough. 

Dolly  Leonard  was  not  even  in  our  set. 
She  was  an  older  girl  by  several  years. 
But  she  was  the  belle  of  the  village. 
Dolly  Leonard's  gowns,  Dolly  Leonard's 
parties,  Dolly  Leonard's  lovers,  were  the 
envy  of  all  womankind.  And  Dolly 
Leonard's  courtship  and  marriage  were  to 
us  the  fitting  culmination  of  her  wonder 
ful  career.  She  was  our  ideal  of  every 
thing  that  a  girl  should  be.  She  was 
good,  she  was  beautiful,  she  was  irresist 
ibly  fascinating.  She  was,  in  fact,  every 
thing  that  we  girlishly  longed  to  be  in 
the  revel  of  a  ballroom  or  the  white  sanc 
tity  of  a  church. 

And  now  she,  the  bright,  the  joyous, 
the  warm,  was  colder  than  we  were,  and 
would  never  be  warm  again.  Never  again. 
.  .  .  And  there  were  garish  flowers  down 
stairs,  and  music  and  favors  and  ices — 
nasty  shivery  ices, — and  pretty  soon  a 
brawling  crowd  of  people  would  come 


The  Perfect  Year  123 

and  dance  because  I  was  eighteen — and 
still  alive. 

Into  our  hideous  brooding  broke  a 
husky  little  voice  that  had  not  yet 
spoken : 

"  Dolly  Leonard  told  my  big  sister  a 
month  ago  that  she  wasn't  a  bit  fright 
ened, —  that  she  had  had  one  perfect 
year,  and  a  perfect  year  was  well 
worth  dying  for — if  one  had  to.  Of 
course  she  hoped  she  wouldn't  die,  but 
if  she  did,  it  was  a  wonderful  thing  to 
die  happy.  Dolly  was  queer  about  it; 
I  heard  my  big  sister  telling  mother. 
Dolly  said,  '  Life  couldn't  always  be  at 
high  tide — there  was  only  one  high  tide 
in  any  one's  life,  and  she  thought  it 
was  beautiful  to  go  in  the  full  flush 
before  the  tide  turned.' " 

The  speaker  ended  with  a  harsh  sob. 

Then  suddenly  into  our  awed  silence 
broke  my  mother  in  full  evening  dress. 
She  was  a  very  handsome  mother. 

As  she  looked  down  on  our  huddled 
group  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  but 
there  was  no  shock.  I  noticed  distinctly 
that  there  was  no  shock.  "  Why,  girls," 
she  exclaimed,  with  a  certain  terse  bright 
ness,^"  aren't  you  dressed  yet  ?  It's  eight 
o'clock  and  people  are  beginning  to  ar- 


124  Harper's  Novelettes 

I  remember  that  I  felt  a  little  ashamed 
of  her. 

"  We  don't  want  any  party,"  I  answer 
ed,  glumly.  "  The  girls  are  going  home." 

"  Nonsense !"  said  my  mother,  catch 
ing  me  by  the  hand  and  pulling  me  al 
most  roughly  to  my  feet.  "  Go  quickly 
and  call  one  of  the  maids  to  come  and 
help  you  dress.  Angeline,  I'll  do  your 
hair.  Bertha,  where  are  your  shoes? 
Gertrude,  that's  a  beautiful  gown — 
just  your  color.  Hurry  into  it.  There 
goes  the  bell.  Hark!  the  orchestra  is 
beginning." 

And  so,  with  a  word  here,  a  touch 
there,  a  searching  look  everywhere, 
mother  marshalled  us  into  line.  I  had 
never  heard  her  voice  raised  before. 

The  color  came  back  to  our  cheeks, 
the  light  to  our  eyes.  We  bubbled  over 
with  spirits — nervous  spirits,  to  be  sure, 
but  none  the  less  vivacious  ones. 

When  the  last  hook  was  fastened,  the 
last  glove  buttoned,  the  last  curl  fluffed 
into  place,  mother  stood  for  an  instant 
tapping  her  foot  on  the  floor.  She  looked 
like  a  little  general. 

"  Girls,"  she  said,  "  there  are  five  hun 
dred  people  coming  to-night  from  all 
over  the  State,  and  fully  two-thirds  of 
them  never  heard  of  Dolly  Leonard.  We 


The  Perfect  Year  125 

must  never  spoil  other  people's  pleasures 
by  flaunting  our  own  personal  griefs.  I 
expect  my  daughter  to  conduct  herself 
this  evening  with  perfect  cheerfulness 
and  grace.  She  owes  it  to  her  guests; 
and " — mother's  chin  went  high  up  in 
the  air — "  I  refuse  to  receive  in  my  house 
again  any  one  of  you  girls  who  mars  my 
daughter's  debutante  party  by  tears  or 
hysterics.  You  may  go  now." 

We  went,  silently  berating  the  brutal 
harshness  of  grown  people.  We  went, 
airily,  flutteringly,  luminously,  like  a 
bunch  of  butterflies.  At  the  head  of  the 
stairs  the  music  caught  us  up  in  a  mael 
strom  of  excitement  and  whirled  us 
down  into  the  throng  of  pleasure.  And 
when  we  reached  the  drawing-room  and 
found  mother  we  felt  as  though  we  were 
walking  on  air.  We  thought  it  was  self- 
control.  We  were  not  old  enough  to 
know  it  was  mostly  "  youth." 

My  debutante  party  was  the  gayest 
party  ever  given  in  our  town.  We  seven 
girll  were  like  sprites  gone  mad.  We 
were  like  fairy  torches  that  kindled  the 
whole  throng.  We  flitted  among  the 
palms  like  will-o'-the-wisps.  We  danced 
the  toes  out  of  our  satin  slippers.  We 
led  our  old  boy-friends  a  wild  chase  of 
young  love  and  laughter,  and  because 


126  Harper's  Novelettes 

our  hearts  were  like  frozen  lead  within 
us  we  sought,  as  it  were,  "  to  warm  both 
hands  at  the  fires  of  life."  We  trifled 
with  older  men.  We  flirted,  as  it  were, 
with  our  fathers. 

My  debutante  party  turned  out  a  revel. 
I  have  often  wondered  if  my  mother  was 
frightened.  I  don't  know  what  went  on 
in  the  other  girls'  brains,  but  mine  were 
seared  with  the  old-world  recklessness — 
"  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow 
we  die."  We  die! 

I  had  a  lover — a  boy  lover.  His  name 
was  Gordon.  He  was  twenty-one  years 
old,  and  he  had  courted  me  with  boyish 
seriousness  for  three  years.  Mother  had 
always  pooh-poohed  his  love-story  and 
said :  "  Wait,  wait.  Why,  my  daughter 
isn't  even  out  yet.  Wait  till  she's  out." 

And  Gordon  had  narrowed  his  near 
sighted  eyes  ominously  and  shut  his  lips 
tight.  "  Very  well,"  he  had  answered,  "  I 
will  wait  till  she  is  out — but  no  longer." 

He  was  rich,  he  was  handsome,  he  was 
well-born,  he  was  strong,  but  more  than 
all  that  he  held  my  fancy  with  a  certain 
thrilling  tenacity  that  frightened  me 
while  it  lured  me.  And  I  had  always 
looked  forward  to  my  debutante  party 
on  my  eighteenth  birthday  with  the 
tingling  realization,  half  joy,  half  fear, 


The  Perfect  Year  127 

that  on  that  day  I  should  have  to  settle 
once  and  forever  with — man. 

I  had  often  wondered  how  Gordon  would 
propose.  He  was  a  proud,  high-strung 
boy.  If  he  was  humble,  and  pleaded  and 
pleaded  with  the  hurt  look  in  his  eyes 
that  I  knew  so  well,  I  thought  I  would 
accept  him ;  and  if  we  could  get  to  mother 
in  the  crowd,  perhaps  we  could  announce 
the  engagement  at  supper-time.  It  seem 
ed  to  me  that  it  would  be  a  very  wonder 
ful  thing  to  be  engaged  on  one's  eight 
eenth  birthday.  So  many  girls  were  not 
engaged  till  nineteen  or  even  twenty. 
But  if  he  was  masterful  and  high-step 
ping,  as  he  knew  so  well  how  to  be,  I  had 
decided  to  refuse  him  scornfully  with  a 
toss  of  my  head  and  a  laugh.  I  could 
break  his  heart  with  the  sort  of  laugh  I 
had  practised  before  my  mirror. 

It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  have  a  long- 
anticipated  event  finally  overtake  you. 
It  is  the  most  terrible  thing  of  all  to 
have  to  settle  once  and  forever  with  man. 

Gordon  came  for  me  at  eleven  o'clock. 
I  was  flirting  airily  at  the  time  with  our 
village  Beau  Brunimel,  who  was  old 
enough  to  be  my  grandfather. 

Gordon  slipped  my  little  hand  through 
his  arm  and  carried  me  off  to  a  lonely 
place  in  the  conservatory.  For  a  second 


128  Harpers  Novelettes 

it  seemed  a  beautiful  relief  to  be  out 
of  the  noise  and  the  glare — and  alone 
with  Gordon.  But  instantly  my  realiza 
tion  of  the  potential  moment  rushed  over 
me  like  a  flood,  and  I  began  to  tremble 
violently.  All  the  nervous  strain  of  the 
evening  reacted  suddenly  on  me. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  to 
night?"  asked  Gordon,  a  little  sternly. 
"  What  makes  you  so  wild  ?"  he  persisted, 
with  a  grim  little  attempt  at  a  laugh. 

At  his  words,  my  heart  seemed  to  turn 
over  within  me  and  settle  heavily.  It 
was  before  the  days  when  we  discussed 
life's  tragedies  with  our  best  men  friends. 
Indeed,  it  was  so  long  before  that  I 
sickened  and  grew  faint  at  the  very 
thought  of  the  sorrowful  knowledge 
which  I  kept  secret  from  him. 

Again  he  repeated,  "  What's  the  mat 
ter  with  you  ?"  but  I  could  find  nc 
answer.  I  just  sat  shivering,  with 
my  lace  scarf  drawn  close  across  my 
bare  shoulders. 

Gordon  took  hold  of  a  white  ruffle  on 
my  gown  and  began  to  fidget  with  it.  I 
could  see  the  fine  thoughts  go  flitting 
through  his  eyes,  but  when  he  spoke  again 
it  was  quite  commonplacely. 

"  Will  you  do  me  a  favor  ?"  he  asked. 
"  Will  you  do  me  the  favor  of  marry- 


The  Perfect  Year  129 

ing  me?"  And  he  laughed.  Good  God! 
he  laughed! 

"  A  favor "  to  marry  him !  And  he 
asked  it  as  he  might  have  asked  for 
a  posie  or  a  dance.  So  flippantly — with 
a  laugh.  "A  favor"!  And  Dolly  Leon 
ard  lay  dead  of  her  favor ! 

I  jumped  to  my  feet — I  was  half  mad 
with  fear  and  sex  and  sorrow  and  excite 
ment.  Something  in  my  brain  snapped. 
And  I  struck  Gordon — struck  him  across 
the  face  with  my  open  hand.  And  he 
turned  as  white  as  the  dead  Dolly  Leon 
ard,  and  went  away — oh,  very  far  away. 

Then  I  ran  back  alone  to  the  hall  and 
stumbled  into  my  father's  arms. 

"  Are  you  having  a  good  time  ?"  asked 
my  father,  pointing  playfully  at  my 
blazing  cheeks. 

I  went  to  my  answer  like  an  arrow  to 
its  mark.  "  I  am  having  the  most  won 
derful  time  in  the  world,"  I  cried;  "I 
have  settled  with  man." 

My  father  put  back  his  head  and 
shouted.  He  thought  it  was  a  fine  joke. 
He  laughed  about  it  long  after  my  party 
was  over.  He  thought  my  head  was 
turned.  He  laughed  about  it  long  after 
other  people  had  stopped  wondering  why 
Gordon  went  away. 

I    never    told    any    one    why    Gordon 


130  Harper's  Novelettes 

went  away.  I  might  under  certain  cir 
cumstances  have  told  a  girl,  but  it 
was  not  the  sort  of  thing  one  could 
have  told  one's  mother.  This  is  the 
first  time  I  have  ever  told  the  story 
of  Dolly  Leonard's  death  and  my  debu 
tante  party. 

Dolly  Leonard  left  a  little  son  behind 
her — a  joyous,  rollicking  little  son.  His 
name  is  Paul  Yardley.  We  girls  were 
pleased  with  the  initials — P.  Y.  They 
stand  to  us  for  "  Perfect  Year." 

Dolly  Leonard's  husband  has  married 
again,  and  his  wife  has  borne  him  safely 
three  daughters  and  a  son.  Each  one  of 
my  six  girl  chums  is  the  mother  of  a 
family.  Now  and  again  in  my  experience 
some  woman  has  shirked  a  duty.  But 
I  have  never  yet  met  a  woman  who 
dared  to  shirk  a  happiness.  Duties  re 
peat  themselves.  There  is  no  duplicate 
of  happiness. 

I  am  fifty-eight  years  old.  I  have  never 
married.  I  do  not  say  whether  I  am  glad 
or  sorry.  I  only  know  that  I  have  never 
had  a  Perfect  Year.  I  only  know  that 
I  have  never  been  warm  since  the  night 
that  Dolly  Leonard  died. 


Editha 

BY   WILLIAM   DEAN   HOWELLS 

THE  air  was  thick  with  the  war 
feeling,  like  the  electricity  of  a 
storm  which  has  not  yet  burst. 
Editha  sat  looking  out  into  the  hot 
spring  afternoon,  with  her  lips  parted, 
and  panting  with  the  intensity  of  the 
question  whether  she  could  let  him  go. 
She  had  decided  that  she  could  not  let 
him  stay,  when  she  saw  him  at  the  end 
of  the  still  leafless  avenue,  making  slow 
ly  up  toward  the  house,  with  his  head 
down,  and  his  figure  relaxed.  She  ran 
impatiently  out  on  the  veranda,  to  the 
edge  of  the  steps,  and  imperatively 
demanded  greater  haste  of  him  with 
her  will  before  she  called  aloud  to 
him,  "George!" 

He  had  quickened  his  pace  in  mystical 
response  to  her  mystical  urgence,  before 
he  could  have  heard  her;  now  he  looked 
up  and  answered,  "  Well  ?" 

"  Oh,  how  united  we  are  1"  she  exulted, 


132  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  then  she  swooped  down  the  steps  to 
him.  "What  is  it?"  she  cried. 

"  It's  war,"  he  said,  and  he  pulled  her 
up  to  him,  and  kissed  her. 

She  kissed  him  back  intensely,  but  ir 
relevantly,  as  to  their  passion,  and  ut 
tered  from  deep  in  her  throat,  "  How 
glorious!" 

"It's  war,"  he  repeated,  without  con 
senting  to  her  sense  of  it;  and  she  did 
not  know  just  what  to  think  at  first. 
She  never  knew  what  to  think  of  him; 
that  made  his  mystery,  his  charm.  All 
through  their  courtship,  which  was  con 
temporaneous  with  the  growth  of  the 
war  feeling,  she  had  been  puzzled  by 
his  want  of  seriousness  about  it.  He 
seemed  to  despise  it  even  more  than 
he  abhorred  it.  She  could  have  un 
derstood  his  abhorring  any  sort  of 
bloodshed;  that  would  have  been  a  sur 
vival  of  his  old  life  when  he  thought 
he  would  be  a  minister,  and  before  he 
changed  and  took  up  the  law.  But 
making  light  of  a  cause  so  high  and 
noble  seemed  to  show  a  want  of  earnest 
ness  at  the  core  of  his  being.  Not 
but  that  she  felt  herself  able  to  cope 
with  a  congenital  defect  of  that  sort, 
and  make  his  love  for  her  save  him 
from  himself.  Now  perhaps  the  miracle 


Editha  133 

was  already  wrought  in  him.  In  the 
presence  of  the  tremendous  fact  that  he 
announced,  all  triviality  seemed  to  have 
gone  out  of  him;  she  began  to  feel  that. 
He  sank  down  on  the  top  step,  and 
wiped  his  forehead  with  his  handker 
chief,  while  she  poured  out  upon  him 
her  question  of  the  origin  and  authen 
ticity  of  his  news. 

All  the  while,  in  her  duplex  emotion- 
ing,  she  was  aware  that  now  at  the  very 
beginning  she  must  put  a  guard  upon 
herself  against  urging  him,  by  any 
word  or  act,  to  take  the  part  that  her 
whole  soul  willed  him  to  take,  for  the 
completion  of  her  ideal  of  him.  He  was 
very  nearly  perfect  as  he  was,  and  he 
must  be  allowed  to  perfect  himself.  But 
he  was  peculiar,  and  he  might  very  well 
be  reasoned  out  of  his  peculiarity.  Be 
fore  her  reasoning  went  her  emotioning: 
her  nature  pulling  upon  his  nature,  her 
womanhood  upon  his  manhood,  without 
her  knowing  the  means  she  was  using 
to  the  end  she  was  willing.  She  had 
always  supposed  that  the  man  who  won 
her  would  have  done  something  to  win 
her;  she  did  not  know  what,  but  some 
thing.  George  Gearson  had  simply  ask 
ed  her  for  her  love,  on  the  way  home 
from  a  concert,  and  she  gave  her 


134  Harper's  Novelettes 

love  to  him,  without,  as  it  were,  think 
ing.  But  now,  it  flashed  upon  her,  if 
he  could  do  something  worthy  to  have 
won  her — be  a  hero,  her  hero — it  would 
be  even  better  than  if  he  had  done  it  be 
fore  asking  her;  it  would  be  grander. 
Besides,  she  had  believed  in  the  war 
from  the  beginning. 

"  But  don't  you  see,  dearest,"  she  said, 
"that  it  wouldn't  have  come  to  this,  if 
it  hadn't  been  in  the  order  of  Provi 
dence?  And  I  call  any  war  glorious 
that  is  for  the  liberation  of  people  who 
have  been  struggling  for  years  against 
the  cruelest  oppression.  Don't  you  think 
so  too?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  returned,  languidly. 
"  But  war !  Is  it  glorious  to  break  the 
peace  of  the  world  ?" 

"  That  ignoble  peace !  It  was  no 
peace  at  all,  with  that  crime  and  shame 
at  our  very  gates."  She  was  conscious 
of  parroting  the  current  phrases  of  the 
newspapers,  but  it  was  no  time  to  pick 
and  choose  her  words.  She  must  sacri 
fice  anything  to  the  high  ideal  she  had 
for  him,  and  after  a  good  deal  of  rapid 
argument  she  ended  with  the  climax: 
"But  now  it  doesn't  matter  about  the 
how  or  why.  Since  the  war  has  come, 
all  that  is  gone.  There  are  no  two  sides, 


Editha  135 

any  more.     There  is  nothing  now  but 
our  country." 

He  sat  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his 
head  leant  back  against  the  veranda,  and 
he  said  with  a  vague  smile,  as  if  musing 
aloud,  "  Our  country — right  or  wrong." 

"Yes,  right  or  wrong!"  she  returned 
fervidly.  "I'll  go  and  get  you  some 
lemonade."  She  rose  rustling,  and 
whisked  away;  when  she  came  back  with 
two  tall  glasses  of  clouded  liquid,  on  a 
tray,  and  the  ice  clucking  in  them,  he 
still  sat  as  she  had  left  him,  and  she 
said  as  if  there  had  been  no  interrup 
tion  :  "  But  there  is  no  question  of 
wrong  in  this  case.  I  call  it  a  sacred 
war.  A  war  for  liberty,  and  humanity, 
if  ever  there  was  one.  And  I  know  you 
will  see  it  just  as  I  do,  yet." 

He  took  half  the  lemonade  at  a  gulp, 
and  he  answered  as  he  set  the  glass  down : 
"I  know  you  always  have  the  highest 
ideal.  When  I  differ  from  you,  I  ought 
to  doubt  myself." 

A  generous  sob  rose  in  Editha's  throat 
for  the  humility  of  a  man,  so  very  nearly 
perfect,  who  was  willing  to  put  himself 
below  her. 

Besides,  she  felt  that  he  was  never 
so  near  slipping  through  her  fingers  as 
when  he  took  that  meek  way. 


136  Harper's  Novelettes 

"You  shall  not  say  that!  Only,  for 
once  I  happen  to  be  right."  She  seized 
his  hand  in  her  two  hands,  and  poured 
her  soul  from  her  eyes  into  his.  "Don't 
you  think  so  ?"  she  entreated  him. 

He  released  his  hand  and  drank  the 
rest  of  his  lemonade,  and  she  added, 
"Have  mine,  too,"  but  he  shook  his 
head  in  answering,  "  I've  no  business  to 
think  so,  unless  I  act  so,  too." 

Her  heart  stopped  a  beat  before  it 
pulsed  on  with  leaps  that  she  felt  in  her 
neck.  She  had  noticed  that  strange 
thing  in  men;  they  seemed  to  feel  bound 
to  do  what  they  believed,  and  not  think 
a  thing  was  finished  when  they  said  it, 
as  girls  did.  She  knew  what  was  in 
his  mind,  but  she  pretended  not,  and 
she  said,  "  Oh,  I  am  not  sure." 

He  went  on  as  if  to  himself  without 
apparently  heeding  her.  "  There's  only 
one  way  of  proving  one's  faith  in  a 
thing  like  this." 

She  could  not  say  that  she  understood, 
but  she  did  understand. 

He  went  on  again.  "  If  I  believed — 
if  I  felt  as  you  do  about  this  war —  Do 
you  wish  me  to  feel  as  you  do  ?" 

Now  she  was  really  not  sure;  so 
she  said,  "  George,  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean." 


Editha  i37 

He  seemed  to  muse  away  from  lier  as 
before.  "  There  is  a  sort  of  fascination 
in  it.  I  suppose  that  at  the  bottom  of 
his  heart  every  man  would  like  at  times 
to  have  his  courage  tested;  to  see  how 
he  would  act." 

"How  can  you  talk  in  that  ghastly 
way!" 

"It  is  rather  morbid.  Still,  that's 
what  it  comes  to,  unless  you're  swept 
away  by  ambition,  or  driven  by  convic 
tion.  I  haven't  the  conviction  or  the 
ambition,  and  the  other  thing  is  what 
it  comes  to  with  me.  I  ought  to  have 
been  a  preacher,  after  all ;  then  I  couldn't 
have  asked  it  of  myself,  as  I  must,  now 
I'm  a  lawyer.  And  you  believe  it's  a 
holy  war,  Editha?"  he  suddenly  address 
ed  her.  "  Or,  I  know  you  do !  But  you 
wish  me  to  believe  so,  too  ?" 

She  hardly  knew  whether  he  was 
mocking  or  not,  in  the  ironical  way 
he  always  had  with  her  plainer  mind. 
But  the  only  thing  was  to  be  outspoken 
with  him. 

"  George,  I  wish  you  to  believe  what 
ever  you  think  is  true,  at  any  and  every 
cost.  If  Pve  tried  to  talk  you  into  any 
thing,  I  take  it  all  back." 

"Oh,  I  know  that,  Editha.  I  know 
how  sincere  you  are,  and  how —  I  wish 


138  Harper's  Novelettes 

I  had  your  undoubting  spirit!  I'll  think 
it  over;  I'd  like  to  believe  as  you  do. 
But  I  don't,  now;  I  don't,  indeed.  It 
isn't  this  war  alone;  though  this  seems 
peculiarly  wanton  and  needless;  but  it's 
every  war — so  stupid;  it  makes  me  sick. 
Why  shouldn't  this  thing  have  been  set 
tled  reasonably?" 

"Because,"  she  said,  very  throatily 
again,  "  God  meant  it  to  be  war." 

"  You  think  it  was  God  ?  Yes,  I  sup 
pose  that  is  what  people  will  say." 

"Do  you  suppose  it  would  have  been 
war  if  God  hadn't  meant  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  it  seems 
as  if  God  had  put  this  world  into  men's 
keeping  to  work  it  as  they  pleased." 

"  Now,  George,  that  is  blasphemy." 

"Well,  I  won't  blaspheme.  I'll  try 
to  believe  in  your  pocket  Providence,"  he 
said,  and  then  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Why  don't  you  stay  to  dinner  ?" 
Dinner  at  Balcom's  Works  was  at  one 
o'clock. 

"  I'll  come  back  to  supper,  if  you'll 
let  me.  Perhaps  I  shall  bring  you  a 
convert." 

"Well,  you  may  come  back,  on  that 
condition." 

"All  right.  If  I  don't  come,  you'll 
understand." 


Editha  139 

He  went  away  without  kissing  her, 
and  she  felt  it  a  suspension  of  their  en 
gagement.  It  all  interested  her  intense 
ly;  she  was  undergoing  a  tremendous 
experience,  and  she  was  being  equal  to 
it.  While  she  stood  looking  after  him, 
her  mother  came  out  through  one  of  the 
long  windows,  on  to  the  veranda,  with 
a  catlike  softness  and  vagueness. 

"Why  didn't  he  stay  to  dinner?" 

"  Because — because — war  has  been  de 
clared,"  Editha  pronounced,  without 
turning. 

Her  mother  said,  "  Oh,  my !"  and  then 
said  nothing  more  until  she  had  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  large  Shaker 
chairs,  and  rocked  herself  for  some  time. 
Then  she  closed  whatever  tacit  passage 
of  thought  there  had  been  in  her  mind 
with  the  spoken  words,  "Well,  I  hope 
he  won't  go." 

" And  1  hope  he  will"  the  girl  said, 
and  confronted  her  mother  with  a 
stormy  exaltation  that  would  have 
frightened  any  creature  less  unimpres 
sionable  than  a  cat. 

Her  mother  rocked  herself  again  for 
an  interval  of  cogitation.  What  she  ar 
rived  at  in  speech  was,  "Well,  I  guess 
you've  done  a  wicked  thing,  Editha 
Balcom." 


140  Harper's  Novelettes 

The  girl  said,  as  she  passed  indoors 
through  the  same  window  her  mother 
had  come  out  by,  "I  haven't  done  any 
thing — yet." 

In  her  room,  she  put  together  all  her 
letters  and  gifts  from  Gearson,  down  to 
the  withered  petals  of  the  first  flower 
he  had  offered,  with  that  timidity  of  his 
veiled  in  that  irony  of  his.  In  the  heart 
of  the  packet  she  enshrined  her  engage 
ment  ring  which  she  had  restored  to  the 
pretty  box  he  had  brought  it  her  in. 
Then  she  sat  down,  if  not  calmly  yet 
strongly,  and  wrote: 

"  GEORGE  :  I  understood — when  you  left 
me.  But  I  think  we  had  better  empha 
size  your  meaning  that  if  we  cannot  be 
one  in  everything  we  had  better  be  one 
in  nothing.  So  I  am  sending  these 
things  for  your  keeping  till  you  have 
made  up  your  mind. 

"  I  shall  always  love  you,  and  therefore 
I  shall  never  marry  any  one  else.  But 
the  man  I  marry  must  love  his  country 
first  of  all,  and  be  able  to  say  to  me, 

*I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more/ 

"  There    is   no   honor    above   America 


Editha  141 

•with  me.    In  this  great  hour  there  is  no 
other  honor. 

"  Your  heart  will  make  my  words  clear 
to  you.  I  had  never  expected  to  say  so 
much,  but  it  has  come  upon  me  that  I 
must  say  the  utmost.  EDITHA." 

She  thought  she  had  worded  her  letter 
well,  worded  it  in  a  way  that  could  not 
be  bettered;  all  had  been  implied  and 
nothing  expressed. 

She  had  it  ready  to  send  with  the 
packet  she  had  tied  with  red,  white,  and 
blue  ribbon,  when  it  occurred  to  her  that 
she  was  not  just  to  him,  that  she  was 
not  giving  him  a  fair  chance.  He  had 
said  he  would  go  and  think  it  over, 
and  she  was  not  waiting.  She  was 
pushing,  threatening,  compelling.  That 
was  not  a  woman's  part.  She  must 
leave  him  free,  free,  free.  She  could 
not  accept  for  her  country  or  herself  a 
forced  sacrifice. 

In  writing  her  letter  she  had  satisfied 
the  impulse  from  which  it  sprang;  she 
could  well  afford  to  wait  till  he  had 
thought  it  over.  She  put  the  packet  and 
the  letter  by,  and  rested  serene  in  the 
consciousness  of  having  done  what  was 
laid  upon  her  by  her  love  itself  to  do, 
and  yet  used  patience,  mercy,  justice. 


142  Harper's  Novelettes 

She  had  her  reward.  Gearson  did  not 
come  to  tea,  but  she  had  given  him  till 
morning,  when,  late  at  night  there  came 
up  from  the  village  the  sound  of  a  fife  and 
drum  with  a  tumult  of  voices,  in  shout 
ing,  singing,  and  laughing.  The  noise 
drew  nearer  and  nearer;  it  reached  the 
street  end  of  the  avenue;  there  it  si 
lenced  itself,  and  one  voice,  the  voice 
she  knew  best,  rose  over  the  silence.  It 
fell;  the  air  was  filled  with  cheers;  the 
fife  and  drum  struck  up,  with  the  shout 
ing,  singing,  and  laughing  again,  but 
now  retreating;  and  a  single  figure  came 
hurrying  up  the  avenue. 

She  ran  down  to  meet  her  lover  and 
clung  to  him.  He  was  very  gay,  and  he 
put  his  arm  round  her  with  a  boisterous 
laugh.  "  Well,  you  must  call  me  Cap 
tain,  now;  or  Cap,  if  you  prefer;  that's 
what  the  boys  call  me.  Yes,  we've  had 
a  meeting  at  the  town  hall,  and  every 
body  has  volunteered;  and  they  selected 
me  for  captain,  and  I'm  going  to  the  war, 
the  big  war,  the  glorious  war,  the  holy 
war  ordained  by  the  pocket  Providence 
that  blesses  butchery.  Come  along;  let's 
tell  the  whole  family  about  it.  Call  them 
from  their  downy  beds,  father,  mother, 
Aunt  Hitty,  and  all  the  folks !" 

But  when  they  mounted  the  veranda. 


Editha  143 

steps  he  did  not  wait  for  a  larger  au 
dience;  he  poured  the  story  out  upon 
Editha  alone. 

"  There  was  a  lot  of  speaking,  and 
then  some  of  the  fools  set  up  a  shout  for 
me.  It  was  all  going  one  way,  and  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  good  joke  to 
sprinkle  a  little  cold  water  on  them.  But 
you  can't  do  that  with  a  crowd  that 
adores  you.  The  first  thing  I  knew  I 
was  sprinkling  hell-fire  on  them.  '  Cry 
havoc,  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war/ 
That  was  the  style.  Now  that  it  had 
come  to  the  fight,  there  were  no  two  par 
ties  ;  there  was  one  country,  and  the  thing 
was  to  ficrht  the  fight  to  a  finish  as  quick 
as  possible.  I  suggested  volunteering 
then  and  there,  and  I  wrote  my  name 
first  of  all  on  the  roster.  Then  they 
elected  me — that's  all.  I  wish  I  had  some 
ice-water !" 

She  left  him  walking  up  and  down  the 
veranda,  while  she  ran  for  the  ice-pitcher 
and  a  goblet,  and  when  she  came  back 
he  was  still  walking  up  and  down,  shout 
ing  the  story  he  had  told  her  to  hei^  father 
and  mother,  who  had  come  out  more 
sketchily  dressed  than  they  commonly 
were  by  day.  He  drank  goblet  after  gob 
let  of  the  ice-water  without  noticing  who 
was  giving  it,  and  kept  on  talking,  and 


144  Harper's  Novelettes 

laughing  through  his  talk  wildly.  "ItTs 
astonishing,"  he  said,  "how  well  the 
worse  reason  looks  when  you  try  to  make 
it  appear  the  better.  Why,  I  believe  I 
was  the  first  convert  to  the  war  in  that 
crowd  to-night !  I  never  thought  I  should 
like  to  kill  a  man;  but  now,  I  shouldn't 
care;  and  the  smokeless  powder  lets  you 
see  the  man  drop  that  you  kill.  It's  all 
for  the  country!  What  a  thing  it  is  to 
have  a  country  that  can't  be  wrong,  but 
if  it  is,  is  right  anyway!" 

Editha  had  a  great,  vital  thought,  an 
inspiration.  She  set  down  the  ice-pitcher 
on  the  veranda  floor,  and  ran  up-stairs 
and  got  the  letter  she  had  written  him. 
When  at  last  he  noisily  bade  her  father 
and  mother,  "  Well,  good  night.  I  for 
got  I  woke  you  up;  I  sha'n't  want  any 
sleep  myself,"  she  followed  him  down  the 
avenue  to  the  gate.  There,  after  the 
whirling  words  that  seemed  to  fly  away 
from  her  thoughts  and  refuse  to  serve 
them,  she  made  a  last  effort  to  solem 
nize  the  moment  that  seemed  so  crazy, 
and  pressed  the  letter  she  had  written 
upon  him. 

"What's  this?"  he  said.  "Want  me 
to  mail  it?" 

"  No,  no.  It's  for  you.  I  wrote  it 
after  you  went  this  morning.  Keep  it — 


Editha  145 

keep  it — and  read  it  sometime — "  She 
thought,  and  then  her  inspiration  came: 
"  Read  it  if  ever  you  doubt  what  you've 
done,  or  fear  that  I  regret  your  having 
done  it.  Read  it  after  you've  started." 

They  strained  each  other  in  embraces 
that  seemed  as  ineffective  as  their  words, 
and  he  kissed  her  face  with  quick,  hot 
breaths  that  were  so  unlike  him,  that 
made  her  feel  as  if  she  had  lost  her  old 
lover  and  found  a  stranger  in  his  place. 
The  stranger  said,  "  What  a  gorgeous 
flower  you  are,  with  your  red  hair, 
and  your  blue  eyes  that  look  black  now, 
and  your  face  with  the  color  painted 
out  by  the  white  moonshine!  Let  me 
hold  you  under  my  chin,  to  see  whether  I 
love  blood,  you  tiger-lily!"  Then  he 
laughed  Gearson's  laugh,  and  released 
her,  scared  and  giddy.  Within  her  wil- 
fulness  she  had  been  frightened  by  a 
sense  of  subtler  force  in  him,  and 
mystically  mastered  as  she  had  never 
been  before. 

She  ran  all  the  way  back  to  the  house, 
and  mounted  the  steps  panting.  Her 
mother  and  father  were  talking  of  the 
great  affair.  Her  mother  said:  "Wa'n't 
Mr.  Gearson  in  rather  of  an  excited 
state  of  mind?  Didn't  you  think  he 
acted  curious?" 


146  Harper's  Novelettes 

u  Well,  not  for  a  man  who'd  just  been 
elected  captain  and  had  to  set  'em  up  for 
the  whole  of  Company  A,"  her  father 
chuckled  back. 

"  What  in  the  world  do  you  mean,  Mr. 
Balcom?  Oh!  There's  Editha!"  She 
offered  to  follow  the  girl  indoors. 

"Don't  come,  mother!"  Editha  called, 
vanishing. 

Mrs.  Balcom  remained  to  reproach  her 
husband.  "I  don't  see  much  of  any 
thing  to  laugh  at." 

"Well,  it's  catching.  Caught  it  from 
Gearson.  I  guess  it  won't  be  much  of  a 
war,  and  I  guess  Gearson  don't  think 
so,  either.  The  other  fellows  will  back 
down  as  soon  as  they  see  we  mean  it.  I 
wouldn't  lose  any  sleep  over  it.  I'm 
going  back  to  bed,  myself." 

Gearson  came  again  next  afternoon, 
looking  pale,  and  rather  sick,  but  quite 
himself,  even  to  his  languid  irony.  "I 
guess  I'd  better  tell  you,  Editha,  that  I 
consecrated  myself  to  your  god  of  bat 
tles  last  night  by  pouring  too  many  liba 
tions  to  him  down  my  own  throat.  But 
I'm  all  right,  now.  One  has  to  carry  off 
the  excitement,  somehow." 

"  Promise  me,"  she  commanded,  "  that 
you'll  never  touch  it  again !" 


Editha  147 

"What!  Not  let  the  cannikin  clink? 
Not  let  the  soldier  drink?  Well,  I 
promise." 

"You  don't  belong  to  yourself  now; 
you  don't  even  belong  to  me.  You  be 
long  to  your  country,  and  you  have  a 
sacred  charge  to  keep  yourself  strong 
and  well  for  your  country's  sake.  I  have 
been  thinking,  thinking  all  night  and  all 
day  long." 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  been  crying 
a  little,  too,"  he  said  with  his  queer  smile. 

"That's  all  past.  I've  been  thinking, 
and  worshipping  you.  Don't  you  sup 
pose  I  know  all  that  you've  been  through, 
to  come  to  this  ?  I've  followed  you  every 
step  from  your  old  theories  and  opinions." 

"  Well,  you've  had  a  long  row  to  hoe." 

"And  I  know  you've  done  this  from 
the  highest  motives — " 

"  Oh,  there  won't  be  much  pettifog 
ging  to  do  till  this  cruel  war  is — " 

"And  you  haven't  simply  done  it 
for  my  sake.  I  couldn't  respect  you  if 
you  had." 

"Well,  then  we'll  say  I  haven't.  rK 
man  that  hasn't  got  his  own  respect  in 
tact  wants  the  respect  of  all  the  other 
people  he  can  corner.  But  we  won't  go 
into  that.  I'm  in  for  the  thing  now,  and 
we've  got  to  face  our  future.  My  idea 


148  Harper's  Novelettes 

is  tliat  this  isn't  going  to  be  a  very  pro 
tracted  struggle;  we  shall  just  scare  the 
enemy  to  death  before  it  comes  to  a 
fight  at  all.  But  we  must  provide  for 
contingencies,  Editha.  If  anything  hap 
pens  to  me — " 

"Oh,  George!"  She  clung  to  him 
sobbing. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  feel  foolishly 
bound  to  my  memory.  I  should  hate 
that,  wherever  I  happened  to  be." 

"I  am  yours,  for  time  and  eternity — 
time  and  eternity."  She  liked  the  words ; 
they  satisfied  her  famine  for  phrases. 

"Well,  say  eternity;  that's  all  right; 
but  time's  another  thing ;  and  I'm  talking 
about  time.  But  there  is  something! 
My  mother !  If  anything  happens — " 

She  winced,  and  he  laughed.  "  You're 
not  the  bold  soldier-girl  of  yesterday!" 
Then  he  sobered.  "  If  anything  happens, 
I  want  you  to  help  my  mother  out.  She 
won't  like  my  doing  this  thing.  She 
brought  me  up  to  think  war  a  fool  thing 
as  well  as  a  bad  thing.  My  father  was  in 
the  civil  war;  all  through  it;  lost  his  arm 
in  it."  She  thrilled  with  the  sense  of 
the  arm  round  her;  what  if  that  should 
be  lost?  He  laughed  as  if  divining  her: 
"  Oh,  it  doesn't  run  in  the  family,  as  far 
as  I  know!"  Then  he  added,  gravely, 


Editha  U9 

"He  came  home  with  misgivings  about 
war,  and  they  grew  on  him.  I  guess  he 
and  mother  agreed  between  them  that 
I  was  to  be  brought  up  in  his  final  mind 
about  it;  but  that  was  before  my  time. 
I  only  knew  him  from  my  mother's  re 
port  of  him  and  his  opinions;  I  don't 
know  whether  they  were  hers  first;  but 
they  were  hers  last.  This  will  be  a 
blow  to  her.  I  shall  have  to  write  and 
tell  her—" 

He  stopped,  and  she  asked,  "Would 
you  like  me  to  write  too,  George?" 

"I  don't  believe  that  would  do.  No, 
I'll  do  the  writing.  She'll  understand  a 
little  if  I  say  that  I  thought  the  way  to 
minimize  it  was  to  make  war  on  the 
largest  possible  scale  at  once — that  I  felt 
I  must  have  been  helping  on  the  war 
somehow  if  I  hadn't  helped  keep  it 
from  coming,  and  I  knew  I  hadn't;  when 
it  came,  I  had  no  right  to  stay  out  of  it." 

Whether  his  sophistries  satisfied  him 
or  not,  they  satisfied  her.  She  clung  to 
his  breast,  and  whispered,  with  closed 
eyes  and  quivering  lips,  "  Yes,  yes,  yes !" 

"But  if  anything  should  happen,  you 
might  go  to  her,  and  see  what  you  could 
do  for  her.  You  know?  It's  rather  far 
off;  she  can't  leave  her  chair — " 

"Oh,  I'll  go,  if  it's  the  ends  of  the 


150  Harper's  Novelettes 

earth !    But  nothing  will  happen !    Noth 
ing  can!    I — " 

She  felt  herself  lifted  with  his  rising, 
and  Gearson  was  saying,  with  his  arm 
still  round  her,  to  her  father:  "Well, 
we're  off  at  once,  Mr.  Balcom.  We're 
to  be  formally  accepted  at  the  capital, 
and  then  bunched  up  with  the  rest  some 
how,  and  sent  into  camp  somewhere,  and 
got  to  the  front  as  soon  as  possible.  We 
all  want  to  be  in  the  van,  of  course; 
we're  the  first  company  to  report  to  the 
Governor.  I  came  to  tell  Editha,  but  I 
hadn't  got  round  to  it." 

She  saw  him  again  for  a  moment  at 
the  capital,  in  the  station,  just  before 
the  train  started  southward  with  his  regi 
ment.  He  looked  well,  in  his  uniform, 
and  very  soldierly,  but  somehow  girlish, 
too,  with  his  clean-shaven  face  and  slim 
figure.  The  manly  eyes  and  the  strong 
voice  satisfied  her,  and  his  preoccupation 
with  some  unexpected  details  of  duty 
flattered  her.  Other  girls  were  weeping, 
but  she  felt  a  sort  of  noble  distinction 
in  the  abstraction  with  which  they  part 
ed.  Only  at  the  last  moment  he  said, 
"  Don't  forget  my  mother.  It  mayn't  be 
such  a  walk-over  as  I  supposed,"  and  he 
laughed  at  the  notion. 


Editha  151 

He  waved  his  hand  to  her,  as  the  train 
moved  off — she  knew  it  among  a  score  of 
hands  that  were  waved  to  other  girls 
from  the  platform  of  the  car,  for  it 
held  a  letter  which  she  knew  was  hers. 
Then  he  went  inside  the  car  to  read  it, 
doubtless,  and  she  did  not  see  him  again. 
But  she  felt  safe  for  him  through  the 
strength  of  what  she  called  her  love. 
What  she  called  her  God,  always  speak 
ing  the  name  in  a  deep  voice  and  with  the 
implication  of  a  mutual  understanding, 
would  watch  over  him  and  keep  him  and 
bring  him  back  to  her.  If  with  an  empty 
sleeve,  then  he  should  have  three  arms  in 
stead  of  two,  for  both  of  hers  should  be 
his  for  life.  She  did  not  see,  though,  why 
she  should  always  be  thinking  of  the  arm 
his  father  had  lost. 

There  were  not  many  letters  from  him, 
but  they  were  such  as  she  could  have 
wished,  and  she  put  her  whole  strength 
into  making  hers  such  as  she  imagined 
he  could  have  wished,  glorifying  and 
supporting  him.  She  wrote  to  his  moth 
er,  but  the  brief  answer  she  got  was  mere 
ly  to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Gearson  was 
not  well  enough  to  write  herself,  and 
thanking  her  for  her  letter  by  the  hand 
of  some  one  who  called  herself  "  Yrs 
truly,  Mrs.  W.  J.  Andrews," 


152  Harper's  Novelettes 

Editha  determined  not  to  be  hurt,  but 
to  write  again  quite  as  if  the  answer  had 
been  all  she  expected.  But  before  it 
seemed  as  if  she  could  have  written,  there 
came  news  of  the  first  skirmish,  and  in 
the  list  of  the  killed  which  was  tele 
graphed  as  a  trifling  loss  on  our  side, 
was  Gearson's  name.  There  was  a  fran 
tic  time  of  trying  to  make  out  that  it 
might  be,  must  be,  some  other  Gearson; 
but  the  name,  and  the  company  and  the 
regiment,  and  the  State  were  too  definite 
ly  given. 

Then  there  was  a  lapse  into  depths 
out  of  which  it  seemed  as  if  she  never 
could  rise  again;  then  a  lift  into  clouds 
far  above  all  grief,  black  clouds,  that 
blotted  out  the  sun,  but  where  she  soared 
with  him,  with  George,  George!  She 
had  the  fever  that  she  expected  of  her 
self,  but  she  did  not  die  in  it;  she  was 
not  even  delirious,  and  it  did  not  last 
long.  When  she  was  well  enough  to  leave 
her  bed,  her  one  thought  was  of  George's 
mother,  of  his  strangely  worded  wish  that 
she  should  go  to  her  and  see  what  she 
could  do  for  her.  In  the  exaltation  of 
the  duty  laid  upon  her — it  buoyed  her 
up  instead  of  burdening  her — she  rap 
idly  recovered. 

Her  father  went  with  her  on  the  long 


Editha  153 

railroad  journey  from  northern  New 
York  to  western  Iowa;  he  had  business 
out  at  Davenport,  and  he  said  he  could 
just  as  well  go  then  as  any  other  time; 
and  he  went  with  her  to  the  little  country 
town  where  George's  mother  lived  in  a 
little  house  on  the  edge  of  illimitable 
corn-fields,  under  trees  pushed  to  a  top 
of  the  rolling  prairie.  George's  father 
had  settled  there  after  the  civil  war,  as 
so  many  other  old  soldiers  had  done;  but 
they  were  Eastern  people,  and  Editha 
fancied  touches  of  the  East  in  the  June 
rose  overhanging  the  front  door,  and  the 
garden  with  early  summer  flowers  stretch 
ing  from  the  gate  of  the  paling  fence. 

It  was  very  low  inside  the  house,  and 
so  dim,  with  the  closed  blinds,  that  they 
could  scarcely  see  one  another:  Editha 
tall  and  black  in  her  crapes  which  filled 
the  air  with  the  smell  of  their  dyes;  her 
father  standing  decorously  apart  with  his 
hat  on  his  forearm,  as  at  funerals;  a 
woman  rested  in  a  deep  armchair,  and 
the  woman  who  had  let  the  strangers  in 
stood  behind  the  chair. 

The  seated  woman  turned  her  head 
round  and  up,  and  asked  the  woman  be 
hind  her  chair,  "  Who  did  you  say  ?" 

Editha,  if  she  had  done  what  she  ex 
pected  of  herself,  would  have  gone  down 


154  Harper's  Novelettes 

on  her  knees  at  the  feet  of  the  seated  fig 
ure  and  said,  "  I  am  George's  Editha," 
for  answer. 

But  instead  of  her  own  voice  she  heard 
that  other  woman's  voice,  saying,  "  Well, 
I  don't  know  as  I  did  get  the  name  just 
right.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  make  a  little 
more  light  in  here,"  and  she  went  and 
pushed  two  of  the  shutters  ajar. 

Then  Editha's  father  said  in  his  pub 
lic  will-now-address-a-few-remarks  tone, 
"  My  name  is  Balcom,  ma'am ;  Junius  H. 
Balcom,  of  Balcom's  Works,  New  York; 
my  daughter — " 

"Oh!"  The  seated  woman  broke  in, 
with  a  powerful  voice,  the  voice  that  al 
ways  surprised  Editha  from  Gearson's 
slender  frame.  "  Let  me  see  you !  Stand 
round  where  the  light  can  strike  on  your 
face,"  and  Editha  dumbly  obeyed.  "  So, 
you're  Editha  Balcom,"  she  sighed. 

"  Yes,"  Editha  said,  more  like  a  culprit 
than  a  comforter. 

"What  did  you  come  for?" 

Editha's  face  quivered,  and  her  knees 
shook.  "  I  came  —  because  —  because 
George — "  She  could  go  no  farther. 

"Yes,"  the  mother  said,  "he  told  me 
he  had  asked  you  to  come  if  he  got  killed. 
You  didn't  expect  that,  I  suppose,  when 
you  sent  him." 


Editha  155 

"  I  would  rather  have  died  myself  than 
done  it!"  Editha  said  with  more  truth 
in  her  deep  voice  than  she  ordinarily 
found  in  it.  "  I  tried  to  leave  him  free — " 

"Yes,  that  letter  of  yours,  that  came 
back  with  his  other  things,  left  him  free." 

Editha  saw  now  where  George's  irony 
came  from. 

"It  was  not  to  be  read  before — unless 
— until —  I  told  him  so,"  she  faltered. 

"  Of  course,  he  wouldn't  read  a  letter 
of  yours,  under  the  circumstances,  till 
he  thought  you  wanted  him  to.  Been 
sick?"  the  woman  abruptly  demanded. 

"Very  sick,"  Editha  said,  with  self-pity. 

"Daughter's  life,"  her  father  inter 
posed,  "was  almost  despaired  of,  at 
one  time." 

Mrs.  Gearson  gave  him  no  heed.  "  I 
suppose  you  would  have  been  glad  to  die, 
such  a  brave  person  as  you!  I  don't  be 
lieve  he  was  glad  to  die.  He  was  always 
a  timid  boy,  that  way;  he  was  afraid  of 
a  good  many  things ;  but  if  he  was  afraid 
he  did  what  he  made  up  his  mind  to.  I 
suppose  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go,  but 
I  knew  what  it  cost  him,  by  what  it  cost 
me  when  I  heard  of  it.  I  had  been 
through  one  war  before.  When  you 
sent  him  you  didn't  expect  he  would 
get  killed." 


156  Harpers  Novelettes 

The  voice  seemed  to  compassionate 
Editha,  and  it  was  time.  "  No,"  she 
huskily  murmured. 

"  No,  girls  don't ;  women  don't,  when 
they  give  their  men  up  to  their  country. 
They  think  they'll  come  marching  back, 
somehow,  just  as  gay  as  they  went,  or 
if  it's  an  empty  sleeve,  or  even  an  empty 
pantaloon,  it's  all  the  more  glory,  and 
they're  so  much  the  prouder  of  them, 
poor  things." 

The  tears  began  to  run  down  Editha's 
face;  she  had  not  wept  till  then;  but  it 
was  now  such  a  relief  to  be  understood 
that  the  tears  came. 

"  No,  you  didn't  expect  him  to  get 
killed,"  Mrs.  Gearson  repeated  in  a  voice 
which  was  startlingly  like  George's  again. 
"  You  just  expected  him  to  kill  some  one 
else,  some  of  those  foreigners,  that  weren't 
there  because  they  had  any  say  about  it, 
but  because  they  had  to  be  there,  poor 
wretches — conscripts,  or  whatever  they 
call  'em.  You  thought  it  would  be  all 
right  for  my  George,  your  George,  to  kill 
the  sons  of  those  miserable  mothers  and 
the  husbands  of  those  girls  that  you 
would  never  see  the  faces  of."  The 
woman  lifted  her  powerful  voice  in  a 
psalmlike  note.  "I  thank  my  God  he 
didn't  live  to  do  it!  I  thank  my  God 


Editha  157 

they  killed  him  first,  and  that  he  ain't 
livin'  with  their  blood  on  his  hands!" 
She  dropped  her  eyes  which  she  had 
raised  with  her  voice,  and  glared  at 
Editha.  "What  you  got  that  black  on 
for?"  She  lifted  herself  by  her  power 
ful  arms  so  high  that  her  helpless  body 
seemed  to  hang  limp  its  full  length. 
"  Take  it  off,  take  it  off,  before  I  tear  it 
from  your  back !" 

The  lady  who  was  passing  the  sum 
mer  near  Balcom's  Works  was  sketch 
ing  Editha's  beauty,  which  lent  itself 
wonderfully  to  the  effects  of  a  color- 
ist.  It  had  come  to  that  confidence 
which  is  rather  apt  to  grow  between 
artist  and  sitter,  and  Editha  had  told 
her  everything. 

"To  think  of  your  having  such  a 
tragedy  in  your  life !"  the  lady  said.  She 
added:  "I  suppose  there  are  people  who 
feel  that  way  about  war.  But  when  you 
consider  how  much  this  war  has  done  for 
the  country!  I  can't  understand  such 
people,  for  my  part.  And  when  you  had 
come  all  the  way  out  there  to  console 
her— got  up  out  of  a  sick  bed !  Well!" 

"I  think,"  Editha  said,  magnanimous 
ly,  "she  wasn't  quite  in  her  right  mind; 
and  so  did  papa." 


158  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Yes/7  the  lady  said,  looking  at 
Editha's  lips  in  nature  and  then  at  her 
lips  in  art,  and  giving  an  empirical  touch 
to  them  in  the  picture.  "  But  how  dread 
ful  of  her !  How  perfectly — excuse  me— 
how  vulgar!" 

A  light  broke  upon  Editha  in  the  dark 
ness  which  she  felt  had  been  without  a 
gleam  of  brightness  for  weeks  and 
months.  The  mystery  that  had  bewilder 
ed  her  was  solved  by  the  word;  and  from 
that  moment  she  rose  from  grovelling  in 
shame  and  self-pity,  and  began  to  live 
again  in  the  ideal. 


The  Stout  Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle 

BY   OCTAVE   THANET 


"TEHEES    was    a    skeleton    in    Mrs. 

*  Margaret   Ellis's  closet;   the   same 

*  skeleton   abode   also   in   the   closet 
of  Miss  Lorania  Hopkins. 

The  skeleton — which  really  does  not 
seem  a  proper  word — was  the  dread  of 
growing  stout.  They  were  more  afraid 
of  flesh  than  of  sin.  Yet  they  were 
both  good  women.  Mrs.  Ellis  regularly 
attended  church,  and  could  always  be 
depended  on  to  show  hospitality  to  con 
vention  delegates,  whether  clerical  or 
lay;  she  was  a  liberal  subscriber  to  every 
good  work;  she  was  almost  the  only 
woman  in  the  church  aid  society  that 
never  lost  her  temper  at  the  soul-vexing 
time  of  the  church  fair;  and  she  had  a 
larger  clientele  of  regular  pensioners 
than  any  one  in  town,  unless  it  were  her 
friend  Miss  Hopkins,  who  was  "so  good 
to  the  poor  "  that  never  a  tramp  slighted 
her  kitchen.  Miss  Hopkins  was  as  amia- 


160  Harper's  Novelettes 

ble  as  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  always  put  her 
name  under  that  of  Mrs.  Ellis,  with  ex 
actly  the  same  amount,  on  the  subscrip 
tion  papers.  She  could  have  given  more, 
for  she  had  the  larger  income;  but  she 
had  no  desire  to  outshine  her  friend, 
whom  she  admired  as  the  most  charming 
of  women. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  indeed,  was  agreeable  as 
well  as  good,  and  a  pretty  woman  to 
the  bargain,  if  she  did  not  choose  to  be 
weighed  before  people.  Miss  Hopkins 
often  told  her  that  she  was  not  really 
stout;  she  merely  had  a  plump,  trig 
little  figure.  Miss  Hopkins,  alas!  was 
really  stout.  The  two  waged  a  warfare 
against  the  flesh  equal  to  the  apostle's 
in  vigor,  although  so  much  less  deserving 
of  praise. 

Mrs.  Ellis  drove  her  cook  to  distrac 
tion  with  divers  dieting  systems,  from 
Banting's  and  Dr.  Salisbury's  to  the 
latest  exhortations  of  some  unknown 
newspaper  prophet.  She  bought  elab 
orate  gymnastic  appliances,  and  swung 
dumb-bells  and  rode  imaginary  horses 
and  propelled  imaginary  boats.  She  ran 
races  with  a  professional  trainer,  and 
she  studied  the  principles  of  Delsarte, 
and  solemnly  whirled  on  one  foot  and 
swayed  her  body  and  rolled  her  head  and 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        161 

hopped  and  kicked  and  genuflected  in 
company  with  eleven  other  stout  and 
earnest  matrons  and  one  slim  and  gig 
gling  girl  who  almost  choked  at  every 
lesson.  In  all  these  exercises  Miss  Hop 
kins  faithfully  kept  her  company,  which 
was  the  easier  as  Miss  Hopkins  lived  in 
the  next  house,  a  conscientious  Colonial 
mansion  with  all  the  modern  conve 
niences  hidden  heneath  the  old-fashioned 
pomp. 

And  yet,  despite  these  struggles  and 
self-denials,  it  must  be  told  that  Mar 
garet  Ellis  and  Lorania  Hopkins  were 
little  thinner  for  their  warfare.  Still, 
as  Shuey  Cardigan,  the  trainer,  told  Mrs. 
Ellis,  there  was  no  knowing  what  they 
might  have  weighed  had  they  not  strug 
gled. 

"It  ain't  only  the  fat  that's  on  yer 
moind  ye,"  says  Shuey,  with  a  confiden 
tial  sympathy  of  mien ;  "  it's  what  ye'd 
naturally  be  getting  in  addition.  And 
first  ye've  got  to  peel  off  that,  and  then 
ye  come  down  to  the  other." 

Shuey  was  so  much  the  most  success 
ful  of  Mrs.  Ellis's  reducers  that  his  words 
were  weighty.  And  when  at  last  Shuey 
said,  "I  got  what  you  need,"  Mrs.  Ellis 
listened.  "You  need  a  bike,  no  less," 
says  Shuey. 

II      D.G. 


1 62  Harper's  Novelettes 

"But  I  never  could  ride  one!"  said 
Margaret,  opening  her  pretty  brown  eyes 
and  wrinkling  her  Grecian  forehead. 

"You'd  ride  in  six  lessons." 

"But  how  would  I  look,  Cardigan?" 

"  You'd  look  noble,  ma'am !" 

"  What  do  you  consider  the  best  wheel, 
Cardigan?" 

The  advertising  rules  of  magazines  pre 
vent  my  giving  Cardigan's  answer;  it  is 
enough  that  the  wheel  glittered  at  Mrs. 
Ellis's  door  the  very  next  day,  and  that 
a  large  pasteboard  box  was  delivered  by 
the  expressman  the  very  next  week.  He 
went  on  to  Miss  Hopkins's,  and  delivered 
the  twin  of  the  box,  with  a  similar  yellow 
printed  card  bearing  the  impress  of  the 
same  great  firm  on  the  inside  of  the  box 
cover. 

For  Margaret  had  hied  her  to  Lorania 
Hopkins  the  instant  Shuey  was  gone. 
She  presented  herself  breathless,  a  lit 
tle  to  the  embarrassment  of  Lorania, 
who  was  sitting  with  her  niece  before  a 
large  box  of  cracker- jack. 

"  It's  a  new  kind  of  candy ;  I  was  just 
lasting  it,  Maggie,"  faltered  she,  while 
the  niece,  a  girl  of  nineteen,  with  the 
inhuman  spirits  of  her  age,  laughed 
aloud. 

"You    needn't    mind    me,"    said    Mrs. 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        163 

Ellis,  cheerfully;  "I'm  eating  potatoes 
now !" 

"  Oh,  Maggie !"  Miss  Hopkins  breathed 
the  words  between  envy  and  disapproval. 

Mrs.  Ellis  tossed  her  brown  head  airily, 
not  a  whit  abashed.  "And  I  had  beer 
for  luncheon,  and  I'm  going  to  have 
champagne  for  dinner." 

"  Maggie,  how  do  you  dare  ?  Did  they 
— did  they  taste  good?" 

"  They  tasted  heavenly,  Lorania.  Pass 
me  the  candy.  I  am  going  to  try  some 
thing  new — the  thinningest  thing  there 
is.  I  read  in  the  paper  of  one  woman 
who  lost  forty  pounds  in  three  months, 
and  is  losing  still!" 

"  If  it  is  obesity  pills,  I— 

"It  isn't;  it's  a  bicycle.  Lorania,  you 
and  I  must  ride!  Sibyl  Hopkins,  you 
heartless  child,  what  are  you  laughing 
at?" 

Lorania  rose;  in  the  glass  over  the 
mantel  her  figure  returned  her  gaze. 
There  was  no  mistake  (except  that,  as  is 
often  the  case  with  stout  people,  that 
glass  always  increased  her  size),  she  was 
a  stout  lady.  She  was  taller  than  the 
average  of  women,  and  well  proportioned, 
and  still  light  on  her  feet;  but  she  could 
not  blink  away  the  records ;  she  was  heavy 
on  the  scales.  Did  she  stand  looking  at 


164  Harper's  Novelettes 

herself  squarely,  her  form  was  shapely 
enough,  although  larger  than  she  could 
wish ;  but  the  full  force  of  the  revelation 
fell  when  she  allowed  herself  a  profile 
view,  she  having  what  is  called  "  a  round 
waist,"  and  being  almost  as  large  one 
way  as  another.  Yet  Lorania  was  only 
thirty-three  years  old,  and  was  of  no 
mind  to  retire  from  society,  and  have  a 
special  phaeton  built  for  her  use,  and 
hear  from  her  mother's  friends  how  much 
her  mother  weighed  before  her  death. 

"How  should  7  look  on  a  wheel?"  she 
asked,  even  as  Mrs.  Ellis  had  asked  be 
fore;  and  Mrs.  Ellis  stoutly  answered, 
"You'd  look  nolle P9 

"  Shuey  will  teach  us,"  she  went  on, 
"  and  we  can  have  a  track  made  in  your 
pasture,  where  nobody  can  see  us  learn 
ing.  Lorania,  there's  nothing  like  it. 
Let  me  bring  you  the  bicycle  edition  of 
Harper's  Bazar." 

Miss  Hopkins  capitulated  at  once,  and 
sat  down  to  order  her  costume,  while 
Sibyl,  the  niece,  revelled  silently  in  vi 
sions  of  a  new  bicycle  which  should  pres 
ently  revert  to  her.  "  For  it's  ridiculous, 
auntie's  thinking  of  riding!"  Miss  Sibyl 
considered.  "  She  would  be  a  figure  of 
fun  on  a  wheel;  besides,  she  can  never 
learn  in  this  world!" 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        165 

Yet  Sibyl  was  attached  to  her  aunt, 
and  enjoyed  visiting  Hopkins  Manor,  as 
Lorania  had  named  her  new  house,  into 
which  she  moved  on  the  same  day  that 
she  joined  the  Colonial  Dames,  by  right 
of  her  ancestor  the  great  and  good  divine 
commemorated  by  Mrs.  Stowe.  Lorania's 
friends  were  all  fond  of  her,  she  was  so 
good-natured  and  tolerant,  with  a  touch 
of  dry  humor  in  her  vision  of  things,  and 
not  the  least  a  Puritan  in  her  frank  en 
joyment  of  ease  and  luxury.  Neverthe 
less,  Lorania  had  a  good,  able-bodied, 
New  England  conscience,  capable  of  stay 
ing  awake  nights  without  flinching;  and 
perhaps  from  her  stanch  old  Puritan 
forefathers  she  inherited  her  simple  in 
tegrity  so  that  she  neither  lied  nor  cheat 
ed — even  in  the  small,  whitewashed  man 
ner  of  her  sex — and  valued  loyalty  above 
most  of  the  virtues.  She  had  an  inno 
cent  pride  in  her  godly  and  martial  an 
cestry,  which  was  quite  on  the  surface, 
and  led  people  who  did  not  know  her  to 
consider  her  haughty. 

For  fifteen  years  she  had  been  an  or 
phan,  the  mistress  of  a  very  large  estate. 
No  doubt  she  had  been  sought  often  in 
marriage,  but  never  until  lately  had  Lora 
nia  seriously  thought  of  marrying.  Sibyl 
said  that  she  was  too  unsentimental  to 


166  Harper's  Novelettes 

marry.  Really  she  was  too  romantic. 
She  had  a  longing  to  be  loved,  not  in  the 
quiet,  matter-of-fact  manner  of  her  suit 
ors,  but  with  the  passion  of  the  poets. 
Therefore  the  presence  of  another  skele 
ton  in  Mrs.  Ellis's  closet,  because  she 
knew  about  a  certain  handsome  Italian 
marquis  who  at  this  period  was  con 
ducting  an  impassioned  wooing  by  mail. 
Margaret  did  not  fancy  the  marquis.  He 
was  not  an  American.  He  would  take 
Lorania  away.  She  thought  his  very 
virtue  florid,  and  suspected  that  he  had 
learned  his  love-making  in  a  bad  school. 
She  dropped  dark  hints  that  frightened 
Lorania,  who  would  sometimes  piteously 
demand,  "  Don't  you  think  he  could  care 
for  me  —  for  —  for  myself  ?"  Margaret 
knew  that  she  had  an  overweening  dis 
trust  of  her  own  appearance.  How  many 
tears  she  had  shed  first  and  last  over  her 
unhappy  plumpness  it  would  be  hard  to 
reckon.  She  made  no  account  of  her  satin 
skin,  or  her  glossy  black  hair,  or  her  lus 
trous  violet  eyes  with  their  long,  black 
lashes,  or  her  flashing  white  teeth;  she 
glanced  dismally  at  her  shape  and  scorn 
fully  at  her  features,  good,  honest,  irregu 
lar  American  features,  that  might  not  sat 
isfy  a  Greek  critic,  but  suited  each  other 
and  pleased  her  countrymen.  And  then 


Miss  HopkWs  Bicycle        167 

she  would  sigh  heavily  over  her  figure. 
Her  friend  had  not  the  heart  to  impute 
the  marquis's  beautiful,  artless  compli 
ments  to  mercenary  motives.  After  all, 
the  Italian  was  a  good  fellow,  according 
to  the  point  of  view  of  his  own  race,  if  he 
did  intend  to  live  on  his  wife's  money, 
and  had  a  very  varied  assortment  of 
memories  of  women. 

But  Margaret  dreaded  and  disliked  him 
all  the  more  for  his  good  qualities.  To 
day  this  secret  apprehension  flung  a 
cloud  over  the  bicycle  enthusiasm.  She 
could  not  help  wondering  whether  at 
this  moment  Lorania  was  not  thinking 
of  the  marquis,  who  rode  a  wheel  and  a 
horse  admirably. 

"Aunt  Lorania,"  said  Sibyl,  "there 
comes  Mr.  Winslow.  Shall  I  run  out  and 
ask  him  about  those  cloth-of-gold  roses? 
The  aphides  are  eating  them  all  up." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  dear;  but  don't  let 
'Ferguson  suspect  what  you  are  talking 
of;  he  might  feel  hurt." 

Ferguson  was  the  gardener.  Miss  Hop 
kins  left  her  note  to  go  to  the  window. 
Below  she  saw  a  mettled  horse,  with  toss 
ing  head  and  silken  skin,  restlessly  fret 
ting  on  his  bit  and  pawing  the  dust  in 
front  of  the  fence,  while  his  rider,  hat  in 
hand,  talked  with  the  young  girl.  He 


1 68  Harper's  Novelettes 

was  a  little  man,  a  very  little  man,  in  a 
gray  business  suit  of  the  best  cut  and 
material.  An  air  of  careful  and  dainty- 
neatness  was  diffused  about  both  horse 
and  rider.  He  bent  towards  Miss  Sibyl's 
charming  person  a  thin,  alert,  fair  face. 
His  head  was  finely  shaped,  the  brown 
hair  worn  away  a  little  on  the  temples. 
He  smiled  gravely  at  intervals;  the  smile 
told  that  he  had  a  dimple  in  his  cheek. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  "whether 
Mr.  Winslow  can  have  a  penchant  for 
Sibyl?" 

Lorania  opened  her  eyes.  'At  this  mo 
ment  Mr.  Winslow  had  caught  sight  of 
her  at  tKe  window,  and  he  bowed  almost 
to  his  saddle-bow ;  Sibyl  was  saying  some 
thing  at  which  she  laughed,  and  he  vis 
ibly  reddened.  It  was  a  peculiarity  of 
his  that  his  color  turned  easily.  In  a 
second  his  hat  was  on  his  head  and  his 
horse  bounded  half  across  the  road. 

"Hardly,  I  think,"  said  Lorania. 
"How  well  he  rides!  I  never  knew  any 
one  ride  better — in  this  country." 

"I  suppose  Sibyl  would  ridicule  such 
a  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  continuing  her 
own  train  of  thought,  and  yet  vaguely 
disturbed  by  the  last  sentence. 

"Why  should  she?" 

'"Well,  he  is  so  little,  for  one  thing, 


Miss  Hopkms's  Bicycle        169 

and  she  is  so  tall.  And  then  Sibyl  thinks 
a  great  deal  of  social  position." 

"  He  is  a  Winslow,"  said  Lorania,  arch- 
in  her  neck  unconsciously — "  a  lineal  de 
scendant  from  Kenelm  Winslow,  who 
came  over  in  the  May — " 

"  But  his  mother—" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  his 
mother  before  she  came  here.  Oh,  of 
course  I  know  the  gossip  that  she  was  a 
niece  of  the  overseer  at  a  village  poor- 
house,  and  that  her  husband  quarrelled 
with  all  his  family  and  married  her  in 
the  poor-house,  and  I  know  that  when  he 
died  here  she  would  not  take  a  cent  from 
the  Winslows,  nor  let  them  have  the  boy. 
She  is  the  meekest-looking  little  woman, 
but  she  must  have  an  iron  streak  in  her 
somewhere,  for  she  was  left  without 
enough  money  to  pay  the  funeral  ex 
penses,  and  she  educated  the  boy  and  ac 
cumulated  money  enough  to  pay  for  this 
place  they  have. 

"  She  used  to  run  a  laundry,  and  made 
money ;  but  when  Cyril  got  a  place  in  the 
bank  she  sold  out  the  laundry  and  went 
into  chickens  and  vegetables;  she  told 
somebody  that  it  wasn't  so  profitable  as 
the  laundry,  but  it  was  more  genteel,  and 
Cyril  being  now  in  a  position  of  trust  at 
the  bank,  she  must  consider  him.  Cyril 


1 70          Harper's  Novelettes 

swept  out  the  bank.  People  laughed 
about  it,  but,  do  you  know,  I  rather  liked 
Mrs.  Winslow  for  it.  She  isn't  in  the 
least  an  assertive  woman.  How  long 
have  we  been  up  here,  Maggie?  Isn't  it 
four  years  ?  And  they  have  been  our  next- 
door  neighbors,  and  she  has  never  been 
inside  the  house.  Nor  he  either,  for  that 
matter,  except  once  when  it  took  fire,  you 
know,  and  he  came  in  with  that  funny 
little  chemical  engine  tucked  under  his 
arm,  and  took  off  his  hat  in  the  same 
prim,  polite  way  that  he  takes  it  off  when 
he  talks  to  Sibyl,  and  said,  '  If  you'll  ex 
cuse  me  offering  advice,  Miss  Hopkins,  it 
is  not  necessary  to  move  anything;  it 
mars  furniture  very  much  to  move  it  at 
a  fire.  I  think,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I 
can  extinguish  this.'  And  he  did,  too, 
didn't  he,  as  neatly  and  as  coolly  as  if  it 
were  only  adding  up  a  column  of  figures. 
And  offered  me  the  engine  as  a  souvenir." 
"  Lorania,  you  never  told  me  that !" 
"It  seemed  like  making  fun  of  him, 
when  he  had  been  so  kind.  I  declined 
as  civilly  as  I  could.  I  hope  I  didn't 
hurt  his  feelings.  I  meant  to  pay  a  visit 
to  his  mother  and  ask  them  to  dinner, 
but  you  know  I  went  to  England  that 
week,  and  somehow  when  I  came  back 
it  was  difficult.  It  seems  a  little  odd  we 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle         171 

never  have  seen  more  of  the  Winslows, 
but  I  fancy  they  don't  want  either  to  in 
trude  or  to  be  intruded  on.  But  he  is 
certainly  very  obliging  about  the  garden. 
Think  of  all  the  slips  and  flowers  he  has 
given  us,  and  the  advice — " 

"All  passed  over  the  fence.  It  is  fun 
ny  our  neighborly  good  offices  which  we 
render  at  arm's-length.  How  long  have 
you  known  him?" 

"  Oh,  a  long  time.  He  is  cashier  of 
my  bank,  you  know.  First  he  was  teller, 
then  assistant  cashier,  and  now  for  five 
years  he  has  been  cashier.  The  presi 
dent  wants  to  resign  and  let  him  be  pres 
ident,  but  he  hardly  has  enough  stock 
for  that.  But  Oliver,  says  "  (Oliver  was 
Miss  Hopkins's  brother)  "  that  there  isn't 
a  shrewder  or  straighter  banker  in  the 
state.  Oliver  knows  him.  He  says  he  is 
a  sandy  little  fellow." 

"  Well,  he  is,"  assented  Mrs.  Ellis.  "  It 
isn't  many  cashiers  would  let  robbers 
stab  them  and  shoot  them  and  leave  them 
for  dead  rather  than  give  up  the  combi 
nation  of  the  safe!" 

"  He  wouldn't  take  a  cent  for  it,  either, 
and  he  saved  ever  so  many  thousand  dol 
lars.  Yes,  he  is  brave.  I  went  to  the 
same  school  with  him  once,  and  saw  him 
fight  a  big  boy  twice  his  size — such  a  nas- 


172  Harper's  Novelettes 

ty  boy,  who  called  me  '  Fatty/  and  made 
a  kissing  noise  with  his  lips  just  to  scare 
me — and  poor  little  Cyril  Winslow  got 
awfully  beaten,  and  when  I  saw  him  on 
the  ground,  with  his  nose  bleeding  and 
that  big  brute  pounding  him,  I  ran  to  the 
water-bucket,  and  poured  the  whole  buck 
et  on  that  big,  bullying  boy  and  stopped 
the  fight,  just  as  the  teacher  got  on  the 
scene.  I  cried  over  little  Cyril  Winslow. 
He  was  crying  himself.  '  I  ain't  crying 
because  he  hurt  me/  he  sobbed ;  '  I'm  cry 
ing  because  I'm  so  mad  I  didn't  lick  him !' 
I  wdnder  if  he  remembers  that  episode?" 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis. 

"Maggie,  what  makes  you  think  he  is 
falling  in  love  with  Sibyl  ?" 

Mrs.  Ellis  laughed.  "I  dare  say  he 
isn't  in  love  with  Sibyl,"  said  she.  "  I 
think  the  main  reason  was  his  always 
riding  by  here  instead  of  taking  the 
shorter  road  down  the  other  street." 

"Does  he  always  ride  by  here?  I 
hadn't  noticed." 

"Always!"  said  Mrs.  Ellis.  "7  have 
noticed." 

"I  am  sorry  for  him,"  said  Lorania, 
musingly.  "I  think  Sibyl  is  very  much 
taken  with  that  young  Captain  Carr  at 
the  Arsenal.  Young  girls  always  affect 
the  army.  He  is  a  nice  fellow,  but  I 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        173 

don't  think  he  is  the  man  Winslow  is. 
Now,  Maggie,  advise  me  about  the  suit. 
I  don't  want  to  look  like  the  escaped  fat 
lady  of  a  museum." 

Lorania  thought  no  more  of  Sibyl's 
love-affairs.  If  she  thought  of  the  Wins- 
lows,  it  was  to  wish  that  Mrs.  Winslow 
would  sell  or  rent  her  pasture,  which,  in 
addition  to  her  own  and  Mrs.  Ellis's  past 
ures  thrown  into  one,  would  make  such 
a  delightful  bicycle-track. 

The  Winslow  house  was  very  different 
from  the  two  villas  that  were  the  pride  of 
Fairport.  A  little  story-and-a-half  cot 
tage  peeped  out  on  the  road  behind  the 
tall  maples  that  were  planted  when  Wins- 
low  was  a  boy.  But  there  was  a  wonder 
ful  green  velvet  lawn,  and  the  tulips 
and  sweet-peas  and  pansies  that  blazed 
softly  nearer  the  house  were  as  beautiful 
as  those  over  which  Miss  Lorania's  gar 
dener  toiled  and  worried. 

Mrs.  Winslow  was  a  little  woman  who 
showed  the  fierce  struggle  of  her  early 
life  only  in  the  deeper  lines  between  her 
delicate  eyebrows  and  the  expression  of 
melancholy  patience  in  her  brown  eyes. 

She  always  wore  a  widow's  cap  and  a 
black  gown.  In  the  mornings  she  donned 
a  blue  figured  apron  of  stout  and  service 
able  stuff;  in  the  afternoon  an  apron  of 


1 74  Harper's  Novelettes 

that  sheer  white  lawn  used  by  bishops 
and  smart  young  waitresses.  Of  an  after 
noon,  in  warm  weather,  she  was  accus 
tomed  to  sit  on  the  eastern  piazza,  next  to 
the  Hopkins  place,  and  rock  as  she  sewed. 
She  was  thus  sitting  and  sewing  when 
she  beheld  an  extraordinary  procession 
cross  the  Hopkins  lawn.  First  marched 
the  tall  trainer,  Shuey  Cardigan,  who 
worked  by  day  in  the  Lossing  furniture- 
factory,  and  gave  bicycle  lessons  at  the 
armory  evenings.  He  was  clad  in  a  white 
sweater  and  buff  leggings,  and  was  wheel 
ing  a  lady's  bicycle.  Behind  him  walked 
Miss  Hopkins  in  a  gray  suit,  the  skirt  of 
which  only  came  to  her  ankles— she  al 
ways  so  dignified  in  her  toilets. 

"Land's  sakes!"  gasped  Mrs.  Winslow, 
"  if  she  ain't  going  to  ride  a  bike !  Well, 
what  next?" 

What  really  happened  next  was  the 
sneaking  (for  no  other  word  does  justice 
to  the  cautious  and  circuitous  movements 
of  her)  of  Mrs.  Winslow  to  the  stable, 
which  had  one  window  facing  the  Hop 
kins  pasture.  No  cows  were  grazing  in 
the  pasture.  All  around  the  grassy  pla 
teau  twinkled  a  broad  brownish-yellow 
track.  At  one  side  of  this  track  a  bench 
had  been  placed,  and  a  table,  pleasing  to 
the  eye,  with  jugs  and  glasses.  Mrs, 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        175 

Ellis,  In  a  suit  of  the  same  undignified 
brevity  and  ease  as  Miss  Hopkins's,  sat 
on  the  bench  supporting  her  own  wheel. 
Shuey  Cardigan  was  drawn  up  to  his  full 
six  feet  of  strength,  and,  one  arm  in  the 
air,  was  explaining  the  theory  of  the  bal 
ance  of  power.  It  was  an  uncanny  mo 
ment  to  Lorania.  She  eyed  the  glisten 
ing,  restless  thing  that  slipped  beneath 
her  hand,  and  her  fingers  trembled.  If 
she  could  have  fled  in  secret  she  would. 
But  since  flight  was  not  possible,  she  as 
sumed  a  firm  expression.  Mrs.  Ellis  wore 
a  smile  of  studied  and  sickly  cheerfulness. 

"Don't  you  think  it  very  high?"  said 
Lora.nia.  "I  can  never  get  up  on  it!" 

"  It  will  be  by  the  block  at  first,"  said 
Shuey,  in  the  soothing  tones  of  a  jockey  to 
a  nervous  horse ;  u  it's  easy  by  the  block. 
And  I'll  be  steadying  it,  of  course." 

"  Don't  they  have  any  with  larger  sad 
dles?  It  is  a  very  small  saddle." 

"They're  all  of  a  size.  It  wouldn't 
look  sporty  larger;  it  would  look  like  a 
special  make.  Yous  wouldn't  want  a 
special  make." 

Lorania  thought  that  she  would  be 
thankful  for  a  special  make,  but  she  sup 
pressed  the  unsportsmanlike  thought. 
"  The  pedals  are  very  small  too,  Cardi 
gan.  Are  you  sure  they  can  hold  me  ?" 


1 76  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  They  would  hold  two  of  ye,  Miss  Hop 
kins.  Now  sit  aisy  and  graceful  as  ye 
would  on  your  chair  at  home,  hold  the 
shoulders  back,  and  toe  in  a  bit  on  the 
pedals — ye  won't  be  skinning  your  ankles 
so  much  then — and  hold  your  foot  up 
ready  to  get  the  other  pedal.  Hold  light 
on  the  steering  -  bar.  Push  off  hard. 
Now  I" 

"  Will  you  hold  me  ?  I  am  going — 
Oh,  it's  like  riding  an  earthquake!" 

Here  Shuey  made  a  run,  letting  the 
wheel  have  its  own  wild  way — to  reach 
the  balance.  "Keep  the  front  wheel 
under  you !"  he  cried,  cheerfully.  "  Niv- 
er  mind  where  you  go.  Keep  a-pedalling; 
whatever  you  do,  keep  a-pedalling!" 

"But  I  haven't  got  but  one  pedal!" 
gasped  the  rider. 

"Ye  lost  it?" 

"No;  I  never  had  but  one!  Oh,  don't 
let  me  fall!" 

"  Oh,  ye  lost  it  in  the  beginning ;  now, 
then,  I'll  hold  it  steady,  and  you  get  both 
feet  right.  Here  we  go!" 

Swaying  frightfully  from  side  to  side, 
and  wrenched  from  capsizing  the  wheel 
by  the  full  exercise  of  Shuey's  great  mus 
cles,  Miss  Hopkins  reeled  over  the  track, 
At  short  intervals  she  lost  her  pedals,  and 
her  feet,  for  some  strange  reason,  instead 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        177 

of  seeking  the  lost,  simply  curled  up  as 
if  afraid  of  being  hit.  She  gripped  the 
steering-handles  with  an  iron  grasp,  and 
her  turns  were  such  as  an  engine  makes. 
Nevertheless,  Shuey  got  her  up  the  track 
for  some  hundred  feet,  and  then  by  a  her 
culean  sweep  turned  her  round  and  rolled 
her  back  to  the  block.  It  was  at  this  pain 
ful  moment,  when  her  whole  being  was 
concentrated  on  the  effort  to  keep  from 
toppling  against  Shuey,  and  even  more 
to  keep  from  toppling  away  from  him, 
that  Lorania's  strained  gaze  suddenly  fell 
on  the  frightened  and  sympathetic  face  of 
Mrs.  Winslow.  The  good  woman  saw  no 
fun  in  the  spectacle,  but  rather  an  awful 
risk  to  life  and  limb.  Their  eyes  met. 
Not  a  change  passed  over  Miss  Hopkins's 
features ;  but  she  looked  up  as  soon  as  she 
was  safe  on  the  ground,  and  smiled.  In  a 
moment,  before  Mrs.  Winslow  could  decide 
whether  to  run  or  to  stand  her  ground, 
she  saw  the  cyclist  approaching — on  foot. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down?" 
she  said,  smiling.  "We  are  trying  our 
new  wheels." 

And  because  she  did  not  know  how  to 
refuse,  Mrs.  Winslow  suffered  herself  to 
be  handed  over  the  fence.  She  sat  on 
the  bench  beside  Miss  Hopkins  in  the 
prim  attitude  which  had  pertained  to 


i78  Harper's  Novelettes 

gentility  in  her  youth,  her  hands  loosely 
clasping  each  other,  her  feet  crossed  at 
the  ankles. 

"It's  an  awful  sight,  ain't  it 2"  she 
breathed,  "those  little  shiny  things;  I 
don't  see  how  you  ever  git  on  them." 

"  I  don't  get  on  them,"  said  Miss  Hop 
kins.  "  The  only  way  I  shall  ever  learn 
to  start  off  is  to  start  without  the  pedals. 
Does  your  son  ride,  Mrs.  Winslow?" 

" No, ma'am," said  Mrs.  Winslow;  "but 
he  knows  how.  When  he  was  a  boy  noth 
ing  would  do  but  he  must  have  a  bicycle, 
one  of  those  things  most  as  big  as  a 
mill  wheel,  and  if  you  fell  off  you  broke 
yourself  somewhere,  sure.  I  always  ex 
pected  he'd  be  brought  home  in  pieces. 
So  I  don't  think  he'd  have  any  manner  of 
difficulty.  Why,  look  at  your  friend; 
she's  'most  riding  alone!" 

"  She  could  always  do  everything  bet 
ter  than  I,"  cried  Lorania,  with  ungrudg 
ing  admiration.  "  See  how  she  jumps  off ! 
Now  I  can't  jump  off  any  more  than  I 
can  jump  on.  It  seems  so  ridiculous  to 
be  told  to  press  hard  on  the  pedal  on  the 
side  where  you  want  to  jump,  and  swing 
your  further  leg  over  first,  and  cut  a  kind 
of  a  figure  eight  with  your  legs,  and  turn 
your  wheel  the  way  you  don't  want  to  go 
• — all  at  once.  While  I'm  trying  to  think 


Miss  Hopkins's  "Bicycle        179 

of  all  those  directions  I  always  fall  off. 
I  got  that  wheel  only  yesterday,  and  fell 
before  I  even  got  away  from  the  block. 
One  of  my  arms  looks  like  a  Persian 
ribbon." 

Mrs.  Winslow  cried  out  in  unfeigned 
sympathy.  She  wished  Miss  Hopkins 
would  use  her  liniment  that  she  used  for 
Cyril  when  he  was  hurt  by  the  burglars 
at  the  bank;  he  was  bruised  "terrible." 

"  That  must  have  been  an  awful  time 
to  you,"  said  Lorania,  looking  with  more 
interest  than  she  had  ever  felt  on  the 
meek  little  woman;  and  she  noticed  the 
tremble  in  the  decorously  clasped  hands. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  was  all  she  said. 

"I've  often  looked  over  at  you  on  the 
piazza,  and  thought  how  cosey  you  looked. 
Mr.  Winslow  always  seems  to  be  at  home 
evenings." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  We  sit  a  great  deal  on 
the  piazza.  Cyril's  a  good  boy;  he  wa'n't 
nine  when  his  father  died;  and  he's  been 
like  a  man  helping  me.  There  never  was 
a  boy  had  such  willing  little  feet.  And 
he'd  set  right  there  on  the  steps  and  pat 
my  slipper  and  say  what  he'd  git  me  when 
he  got  to  earning  money ;  and  he's  got  me 
every  last  thing,  foolish  and  all,  that  he 
said.  There's  that  black  satin  gown,  a 
sin  and  a  shame  for  a  plain  body  like  me, 


180  Harper's  Novelettes 

but  he  would  git  it.  Cyril's  got  a  beauti 
ful  disposition  too,  jest  like  his  pa's,  and 
he's  a  handy  man  about  the  house,  and 
prompt  at  his  meals.  I  wonder  some 
times  if  Cyril  was  to  git  married  if  his 
wife  would  mind  his  running  over  now 
and  then  and  setting  with  me  awhile." 

She  was  speaking  more  rapidly,  and  her 
eyes  strayed  wistfully  over  to  the  Hop 
kins  piazza,  where  Sibyl  was  sitting  with 
the  young  soldier.  Lorania  looked  at  her 
pityingly. 

"  Why,  surely,"  said  she. 

"  Mothers  have  kinder  selfish  feelings," 
said  Mrs.  Winslow,  moistening  her  lips 
and  drawing  a  quick  breath,  still  watch 
ing  the  girl  on  the  piazza.  "  It's  so  sweet 
and  peaceful  for  them,  they  forget  their 
sons  may  want  something  more.  But  it's 
kinder  hard  giving  all  your  little  com 
forts  up  at  once  when  you've  had  him 
right  with  you  so  long,  and  could  cook 
just  what  he  liked,  and  go  right  into  his 
room  nights  if  he  coughed.  It's  all  right, 
all  right,  but  it's  kinder  hard.  And  beau 
tiful  young  ladies  that  have  had  every 
thing  all  their  lives  might — might  not 
understand  that  a  homespun  old  mother 
isn't  wanting  to  force  herself  on  them  at 
all  when  they  have  company,  and  they 
have  no  call  to  fear  it." 


Bliss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        181 

There  was  no  doubt,  however  obscure 
the  words  seemed,  that  Mrs.  Winslow  had 
a  clear  purpose  in  her  mind,  nor  that 
she  was  tremendously  in  earnest.  Little 
blotches  of  red  dabbled  her  cheeks,  her 
breath  came  more  quickly,  and  she  swal 
lowed  between  her  words.  Lorania  could 
see  the  quiver  in  the  muscles  of  her 
throat.  She  clasped  her  hands  tight  lest 
they  should  shake.  "He's  in  love  with 
Sibyl,"  thought  Lorania.  "The  poor 
woman !"  She  felt  sorry  for  her,  and  she 
spoke  gently  and  reassuringly: 

"No  girl  with  a  good  heart  can  help 
feeling  tenderly  towards  her  husband's 
mother." 

Mrs.  Winslow  nodded.  "You're  real 
comforting,"  said  she.  She  was  silent  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  in  a  different 
tone:  "You  'ain't  got  a  large  enough 
track.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  our 
pasture  too?" 

Lorania  expressed  her  gratitude,  and 
invited  the  Winslows  to  see  the  practice. 

"My  niece  will  come  out  to-morrow," 
she  said,  graciously. 

"Yes?  She's  a  real  fine  -  appearing 
young  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow. 

Both  the  cyclists  exulted.  Neither  of 
them,  however,  was  prepared  to  behold 
the  track  made  and  the  fence  down  the 


182  Harper's  Novelettes 

very  next  morning  when  they  came  out, 
about  ten  o'clock,  to  the  west  side  of.  Miss 
Hopkins's  boundaries. 

"As  sure  as  you  live,  Maggie,"  ex 
claimed  Lorania,  eagerly,  "he's  got  it  all 
done !  Now  that  is  something  like  a  lover. 
I  only  hope  his  heart  won't  be  bruised 
as  black  and  blue  as  I  am  with  the 
wheel!" 

"  Shuey  says  the  only  harm  your  falls 
do  you  is  to  take  away  your  confidence," 
said  Mrs.  Ellis. 

"  He  wouldn't  say  so  if  he  could  sec  my 
Tcnees!"  retorted  Miss  Hopkins. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  it  will  be  observed,  sheered 
away  from  the  love-affairs  of  Mr.  Cyril 
Winslow.  She  had  not  yet  made  up  her 
mind.  And  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  had  been  mar 
ried,  did  not  jump  at  conclusions  regard 
ing  the  heart  of  man  so  rapidly  as  her 
spinster  friend.  She  preferred  to  talk  of 
the  bicycle.  Nor  did  Miss  Hopkins  re 
fuse  the  subject.  To  her  at  this  moment 
the  most  important  object  on  the  globe 
was  the  shining  machine  which  she  would 
allow  no  hand  but  hers  to  oil  and  dust. 
Both  Mrs.  Ellis  and  she  were  simply  pros 
trated  (as  to  their  mental  powers)  by  this 
new  sport.  They  could  not  think  nor 
talk  nor  read  of  anything  but  the  wheel. 
This  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  bicyclist.  No 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        183 

other  sport  appears  to  make  such  havoc 
with  the  mind. 

One  can  learn  to  swim  without  describ 
ing  his  sensations  to  every  casual  ac 
quaintance  or  hunting  up  the  natatorial 
columns  in  the  newspapers.  One  may 
enjoy  riding  a  horse  and  yet  go  about 
his  ordinary  business  with  an  equal  mind. 
One  learns  to  play  golf  and  still  remains 
a  peaceful  citizen  who  can  discuss  politics 
with  interest.  But  the  cyclist,  man  or 
woman,  is  soaked  in  every  pore  with  the 
delight  and  the  perils  of  wheeling.  He 
talks  of  it  (as  he  thinks  of  it)  incessantly. 
For  this  fatuous  passion  there  is  one  ex 
cuse.  Other  sports  have  the  fearful  de 
light  of  danger  and  the  pleasure  of  the 
consciousness  of  dexterity  and  the  dogged 
Anglo-Saxon  joy  of  combat  and  victory; 
but  no  other  sport  restores  to  middle  age 
the  pure,  exultant,  muscular  intoxication 
of  childhood.  Only  on  the  wheel  can  an 
elderly  woman  feel  as  she  felt  when  she 
ran  and  leaped  and  frolicked  amid  the 
flowers  as  a  child. 

Lorania,  of  course,  no  longer  jumped 
or  ran;  she  kicked  in  the  Delsarte  exer 
cises,  but  it  was  a  measured,  calculated, 
one  may  say  cold-blooded  kick,  which  lim 
bered  her  muscles  but  did  not  restore  her 
youthfiil  glow  of  soul.  Her  legs  and  not 


184  Harper's  Novelettes 

her  spirits  pranced.  The  same  thing  may 
be  said  for  Margaret  Ellis.  Now,  between 
their  accidents,  they  obtained  glimpses  of 
an  exquisite  exhilaration.  And  there  was 
also  to  be  counted  the  approval  of  their 
consciences,  for  they  felt  that  no  Turkish 
bath  could  wring  out  moisture  from  their 
systems  like  half  an  hour's  pumping  at 
the  bicycle  treadles.  Lorania  during  the 
month  had  ridden  through  one  bottle  of 
liniment  and  two  of  witch-hazel,  and  by 
the  end  of  the  second  bottle  could  ride  a 
short  distance  alone.  But  Lorania  could 
not  yet  dismount  unassisted,  and  several 
times  she  had  felled  poor  Winslow  to  the 
earth  when  he  rashly  adventured  to  stop 
her.  Captain  Carr  had  a  peculiar,  grace 
ful  fling  of  the  arm,  catching  the  saddle- 
bar  with  one  hand  while  he  steadied  the 
handles  with  the  other.  He  did  not  hesi 
tate  in  the  least  to  grab  Lorania's  belt  if 
necessary.  But  poor  modest  Winslow, 
who  fell  upon  the  wheel  and  dared  not 
touch  the  hem  of  a  lady's  bicycle  skirt, 
was  as  one  in  the  path  of  a  cyclone,  and 
appeared  daily  in  a  fresh  pair  of  white 
trousers. 

"Yous  have  now,"  Shuey  remarked, 
impressively,  one  day — "yous  have  now 
arrived  at  the  most  difficult  and  danger 
ous  period  in  learning  the  wheel.  It's 


Miss  Hopkins' s  Bicycle        185 

similar  to  a  baby  when  it's  first  learned 
to  walk  but  'ain't  yet  got  sense  in  walking. 
When  it  was  little  it  would  stay  put  wher 
ever  ye  put  it,  and  it  didn't  know  enough 
to  go  by  itself,  which  is  similar  to  you. 
When  I  was  holding  ye  you  couldn't  fall, 
but  now  you're  off  alone  depindent  on 
yourself,  object-struck  by  every  tree,  tak 
ing  most  of  the  pasture  to  turn  in,  and 
not  able  to  git  off  save  by  falling — " 

u  Oh,  couldn't  you  go  with  her  some 
how?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Winslow,  appalled 
at  the  picture.  "  Wouldn't  a  rope  round 
her  be  some  help  ?  I  used  to  put  it  round 
Cyril  when  he  was  learning  to  walk." 

"  Well,  no,  ma'am,"  said  Shuey,  pa 
tiently.  "Don't  you  be  scared;  the  rid 
ing  will  come;  she's  getting  on  grandly. 
And  ye  should  see  Mr.  Winslow.  'Tis  a 
pleasure  to  teach  him.  He  rode  in  one 
lesson.  I  ain't  learning  him  nothing  but 
tricks  now." 

"But,  Mr.  Winslow,  why  don't  you 
ride  here — with  us  ?"  said  Sibyl,  with  her 
coquettish  and  flattering  smile.  "We're 
always  hearing  of  your  beautiful  riding. 
Are  we  never  to  see  it  ?" 

"I  think  Mr.  Winslow  is  waiting  for 
that  swell  English  cycle  suit  that  I  hear 
about,"  said  the  captain,  grinning;  and 
Winslow  grew  red  to  his  eyelids. 


1 86  Harper's  Novelettes 

Lorania  gave  an  indignant  side  glance 
at  Sibyl.  Why  need  the  girl  make  game 
of  an  honest  man  who  loved  her?  Sibyl 
was  biting  her  lips  and  darting  side 
glances  at  the  captain.  She  called  the 
pasture  practice  slow,  but  she  seemed, 
nevertheless,  to  enjoy  herself  sitting  on 
the  bench,  the  captain  on  one  side  and 
Winslow  on  the  other,  rattling  off  her 
girlish  jokes,  while  her  aunt  and  Mrs. 
Ellis,  with  the  anxious,  set  faces  of  the 
beginner,  were  pedalling  frantically  after 
Cardigan.  Lorania  began  to  pity  Wins- 
low,  for  it  was  growing  plain  to  her  that 
Sibyl  and  the  captain  understood  each 
other.  She  thought  that  even  if  Sibyl  did 
care  for  the  soldier,  she  need  not  be  so 
careless  of  Winslow's  feelings.  She  talk 
ed  with  the  cashier  herself,  trying  to 
make  amends  for  Sibyl's  absorption  in  the 
other  man,  and  she  admired  the  fortitude 
that  concealed  the  pain  that  he  must  feel. 
It  became  quite  the  expected  thing  for  the 
Winslows  to  be  present  at  the  practice; 
but  Winslow  had  not  yet  appeared  on  his 
wheel.  He  used  to  bring  a  box  of  candy 
with  him,  or  rather  three  boxes — one  for 
each  lady,  he  said — and  a  box  of  pepper 
mints  for  his  mother.  He  was  always 
very  attentive  to  his  mother. 

"And  fancy,  Aunt  Margaret,"  laughed 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        187 

Sibyl, "  he  has  asked  both  auntie  and  m© 
to  the  theatre.  He  is  not  going  to  com 
promise  himself  by  singling  one  of  us 
out.  He's  a  careful  soul.  By  the  way, 
Aunt  Margaret,  Mrs.  Winslow  was  telling 
me  yesterday  that  I  am  the  image  of 
auntie  at  my  age.  Am  I?  Do  I  look 
like  her?  Was  she  as  slender  as  I?" 

"  Almost,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  was  not 
so  inflexibly  truthful  as  her  friend. 

"  No,  Sibyl,"  said  Lorania,  with  a  deep, 
deep  sigh,  "I  was  always  plump;  I  was 
a  chubby  child!  And  oh,  what  do  you 
think  I  heard  in  the  crowd  at  Manly's 
once  ?  One  woman  said  to  another, '  Miss 
Hopkins  has  got  a  wheel.'  '  Miss  Sibyl  V 
said  the  other.  '  No ;  the  stout  Miss  Hop 
kins,'  said  the  first  creature ;  and  the  sec 
ond — "  Lorania  groaned. 

"  What  did  she  say  to  make  you  feel 
that  way?" 

"She  said— she  said,  <Oh  my!'"  an 
swered  Lorania,  with  a  dying  look. 

"  Well,  she  was  horrid,"  said  Mrs.  Ellis ; 
"but  you  know  you  have  grown  thin. 
Come  on;  let's  ride!" 

"  I  never  shall  be  able  to  ride,"  said 
Lorania,  gloomily.  "I  can  get  on,  but  I 
can't  get  off.  And  they've  taken  off  the 
brake,  so  I  can't  stop.  And  I'm  object- 
struck  by  everything  I  look  at.  Some 


1 88        '  Harper's  Novelettes 

day  I  shall  look  down-hill.  Well,  my 
will's  in  the  lower  drawer  of  the  mahog 
any  desk." 

Perhaps  Lorania  had  an  occult  ink 
ling  of  the  future.  For  this  is  what  hap 
pened:  That  evening  Winslow  rode  on 
to  the  track  in  his  new  English  bicycle 
suit,  which  had  just  come.  He  hoped  that 
he  didn't  look  like  a  fool  in  those  queer 
clothes.  But  the  instant  he  entered  the 
pasture  he  saw  something  that  drove  ev 
erything  else  out  of  his  head,  and  made 
him  bend  over  the  steering-bar  and  race 
madly  across  the  green;  Miss  Hopkins's 
bicycle  was  running  away  down-hill! 
Cardigan,  on  foot,  was  pelting  obliquely, 
in  the  hopeless  thought  to  intercept  her, 
while  Mrs.  Ellis,  who  was  reeling  over 
the  ground  with  her  own  bicycle,  wheeled 
as  rapidly  as  she  could  to  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  where  she  tumbled  off,  and  aban 
doning  the  wheel,  rushed  on  foot  to  her 
friend's  rescue. 

She  was  only  in  time  to  see  a  flash  of 
silver  and  ebony  and  a  streak  of  brown 
dart  before  her  vision  and  swim  down 
the  hill  like  a  bird.  Lorania  was  still  in 
the  saddle,  pedalling  from  sheer  force  of 
habit,  and  clinging  to  the  handle  bars. 
Below  the  hill  was  a  stone  wall,  and  far 
ther  was  a  creek.  There  was  a  narrow 


Hiss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        189 

opening  in  the  wall  where  the  cattle  went 
down  to  drink;  if  she  could  steer  through 
that  she  would  have  nothing  worse  than 
soft  water  and  mud;  but  there  was  not 
one  chance  in  a  thousand  that  she  could 
pass  that  narrow  space.  Mrs.  Winslow, 
horror-stricken,  watched  the  rescuer,  who 
evidently  was  cutting  across  to  catch  the 
bicycle. 

"  He's  riding  out  of  sight !"  thought 
Shuey,  in  the  rear.  He  himself  did  not 
slacken  his  speed,  although  he  could  not 
be  in  time  for  the  catastrophe.  Suddenly 
he  stiffened;  Winslow  was  close  to  the 
runaway  wheel. 

"  Grab  her !"  yelled  Shuey.  "  Grab  her 
by  the  belt!  Oh,  Lord!" 

The  exclamation  exploded  like  the 
groan  of  a  shell.  For  while  Winslow's 
bicycling  was  all  that  could  be  wished, 
and  he  flung  himself  in  the  path  of  the 
on-coming  wheel  with  marvellous  celerity 
and  precision,  he  had  not  the  power  to 
withstand  the  never  yet  revealed  number 
of  pounds  carried  by  Miss  Lorania,  im 
pelled  by  the  rapid  descent  and  gather 
ing  momentum  at  every  whirl.  They 
met ;  he  caught  her ;  but  instantly  he  was 
rolling  down  the  steep  incline  and  she 
was  doubled  up  on  the  grass.  He  crashed 
sickeningly  against  the  stone  wall;  she 


1 90  Harper's  Novelettes 

lay  stunned  and  still  on  the  sod;  and 
their  friends,  with  beating  hearts,  slid 
down  to  them.  Mrs.  Winslow  was  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  She  blesses  Shuey 
to  this  day  for  the  shout  he  sent  up, 
"  Nobody  killed,  and  I  guess  no  bones 
broken." 

When  Margaret  went  home  that  eve 
ning,  having  seen  her  friend  safely  in 
bed,  not  much  the  worse  for  her  fall,  she 
was  told  that  Cardigan  wished  to  see  her. 
Shuey  produced  something  from  his 
pocket,  saying :  "  I  picked  this  up  on  the 
hill,  ma'am,  after  the  accident.  It  maybe 
belongs  to  him,  or  it  maybe  belongs  to 
her;  I'm  thinking  the  safest  way  is  to 
just  give  it  to  you."  He  handed  Mrs. 
Ellis  a  tiny  gold-framed  miniature  of 
Lorania  in  a  red  leather  case. 

The  morning  was  a  sparkling  June 
morning,  dewy  and  fragrant,  and  the 
sunlight  burnished  handle  and  pedal  of 
the  friends'  bicycles  standing  on  the  pi 
azza  unheeded.  It  was  the  hour  for  morn 
ing  practice,  but  Miss  Hopkins  slept  in 
her  chamber,  and  Mrs.  Ellis  sat  in  the 
little  parlor  adjoining,  and  thought. 

She  did  not  look  surprised  at  the  maid's 
announcement  that  Mrs.  Winslow  begged 
to  see  her  for  a  few  moments.  Mrs. 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        191 

Winslow  was  pale.  She  was  a  good 
sketch  of  discomfort  on  the  very  edge  of 
her  chair,  clad  in  the  black  silk  which  she 
wore  Sundays,  her  head  crowned  with 
her  bonnet  of  state,  and  her  hands  stiff 
in  a  pair  of  new  gloves. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  not  sending 
up  a  card,"  she  began.  "Cyril  got  me 
some  going  on  a  year  ago,  and  I  thought 
I  could  lay  my  hand  right  on  'em,  but 
I'm  so  nervous  this  morning  I  hunted  all 
over,  and  they  wasn't  anywhere.  I  won't 
keep  you.  I  just  wanted  to  ask  if  you 
picked  up  anything — a  little  red  Kussia- 
leather  case — " 

"  Was  it  a  miniature — a  miniature  of 
my  friend  Miss  Hopkins?" 

"I  thought  it  all  over,  and  I  came  to 
explain.  You  no  doubt  think  it  strange; 
and  I  can  assure  you  that  my  son  never 
let  any  human  being  look  at  that  picture. 
I  never  knew  about  it  myself  till  it  was 
lost  and  he  got  out  of  his  bed  —  he 
ain't  hardly  able  to  walk — and  staggered 
over  here  to  look  for  it,  and  I  followed 
him;  and  so  he  had  to  tell  me.  He  had 
it  painted  from  a  picture  that  came  out 
in  the  papers.  He  felt  it  was  an  awful 
liberty.  But — you  don't  know  how  my 
boy  feels,  Mrs.  Ellis;  he  has  worshipped 
that  woman  for  years.  He  'ain't  never 


192  Harper's  Novelettes 

had  a  thought  of  anybody  but  her  since 
they  was  children  in  school;  and  yet  he's 
been  so  modest  and  so  shy  of  pushing 
himself  forward  that  he  didn't  do  a  thing 
until  I  put  him  on  to  help  you  with  this 
bicycle." 

Margaret  Ellis  did  not  know  what  to 
say.  She  thought  of  the  marquis;  and 
Mrs.  Winslow  poured  out  her  story:  "He 
'ain't  never  said  a  word  to  me  till  this 
morning.  But  don't  I  know?  Don't  I 
know  who  looked  out  so  careful  for  her 
investments?  Don't  I  know  who  was  al 
ways  looking  out  for  her  interest,  silent, 
and  always  keeping  himself  in  the  back 
ground?  Why,  she  couldn't  even  buy  a 
cow  that  he  wa'n't  looking  round  to  see 
that  she  got  a  good  one!  'Twas  him  saw 
the  gardener,  and  kept  him  from  buying 
that  cow  with  tuberculosis,  'cause  he  knew 
about  the  herd.  He  knew  by  finding  out. 
He  worshipped  the  very  cows  she  owned, 
you  may  say,  and  I've  seen  him  patting 
and  feeding  up  her  dogs ;  it's  to  our  house 
that  big  mastiff  always  goes  every  night. 
Mrs.  Ellis,  it  ain't  often  that  a  woman 
gits  love  such  as  my  son  is  offering,  only 
he  da'sn't  offer  it,  and  it  ain't  often  a.  wom 
an  is  loved  by  such  a  good  man  as  my 
son.  He  'ain't  got  any  bad  habits;  he'll 
die  before  he  wrongs  anybody ;  and  he  has 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        193 

got  the  sweetest  temper  you  ever  see ;  and 
he's  the  tidiest  man  about  the  house  you 
could  ask,  and  the  promptest  about  meals." 

Mrs.  Ellis  looked  at  her  flushed  face, 
and  sent  another  flood  of  color  into  it,  for 
she  said,  "Mrs.  Winslow,  I  don't  know 
how  much  good  I  may  be  able  to  do,  but 
I  am  on  your  side." 

Her  eyes  followed  the  little  black  fig 
ure  when  it  crossed  the  lawn.  She  won 
dered  whether  her  advice  was  good,  for 
she  had  counselled  that  Winslow  come 
over  in  the  evening. 

"Maggie,"  said  a  voice.  Lorania  was 
in  the  doorway.  "Maggie,"  she  said, 
"I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  heard  every 
word." 

"  Then  7  can  tell  you,"  cried  Mrs.  El 
lis,  "that  he  is  fifty  times  more  of  a 
man  than  the  marquis,  and  loves  you 
fifty  thousand  times  better!" 

Lorania  made  no  answer,  not  even  by 
a  look.  What  she  felt,  Mrs.  Ellis  could 
not  guess.  Nor  was  she  any  wiser  when 
Winslow  appeared  at  her  gate,  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting. 

"  I  didn't  think  I  would  better  intrude 
on  Miss  Hopkins,"  said  he,  "  but  perhaps 
you  could  tell  me  how  she  is  this  eve 
ning.  My  mother  told  me  how  kind  you 

were,  and  perhaps  you — you  would  ad- 
I3    D.G. 


194  Harper's  Novelettes 

vise  me  if  I  might  venture  to  send  Miss 
Hopkins  some  flowers." 

Out  of  the  kindness  of  her  heart  Mrs. 
Ellis  averted  her  eyes  from  his  face; 
thus  she  was  able  to  perceive  Lorania 
saunter  out  of  the  Hopkins  gate.  So 
changed  was  she  by  the  bicycle  practice 
that,  wrapped  in  her  niece's  shawl,  she 
made  Margaret  think  of  the  girl.  An 
inspiration  flashed  to  her;  she  knew  the 
cashier's  dependence  on  his  eye-glasses, 
and  he  was  not  wearing  them. 

"  If  you  want  to  know  how  Miss  Hop 
kins  is,  why  not  speak  to  her  niece  now?" 
said  she. 

He  started.  He  saw  Miss  Sibyl,  as  he 
supposed,  and  he  went  swiftly  down  the 
street.  "  Miss  Sibyl !"  he  began,  "  may'  I 
ask  how  is  your  aunt?" — and  then  she 
turned. 

She  blushed,  then  she  laughed  aloud. 
"  Has  the  bicycle  done  so  much  for  me  ?" 
said  she. 

"  The  bicycle  didn't  need  to  do  any 
thing  for  you !"  he  cried,  warmly. 

Mrs.  Ellis,  a  little  distance  in  the  rear, 
heard,  turned,  and  walked  thoughtfully 
away.  "They're  off,"  said  she — she  had 
acquired  a  sporting  tinge  of  thought  from 
Shuey  Cardigan.  "  If  with  that  start  he 
can't  make  the  running,  it's  a  wonder." 


Miss  Hopkins's  Bicycle        195 

"I  have  invited  Mr.  Winslow  and  his 
mother  to  dinner,"  said  Miss  Hopkins,  in 
the  morning.  "  Will  you  come  too,  Mag- 


"I'll  back  him  against  the  marquis," 
thought  Margaret,  gleefully. 

A  week  later  Lorania  said:  "I  really 
think  I  must  be  getting  thinner.  Fancy 
Mr.  Winslow,  who  is  so  clear-sighted,  mis 
taking  me  for  Sibyl!  He  says — I  told 
him  how  I  had  suffered  from  my  figure — 
he  says  it  can't  be  what  he  has  suffered 
from  his.  Do  you  think  him  so  very 
short,  Maggie?  Of  course  he  isn't  tall, 
but  he  has  an  elegant  figure,  I  think,  and 
I  never  saw  anywhere  such  a  rider !" 

Mrs.  Ellis  answered,  heartily,  "He 
isn't  very  small,  and  he  is  a  beautiful 
figure  on  the  wheel!"  And  added  to 
herself,  "I  know  what  was  in  that  let 
ter  she  sent  yesterday  to  the  marquis! 
But  to  think  of  its  all  being  due  to  the 
bicycle !" 


The  Marrying  of  Esther 

BY  MARY  M.  HEARS 

T  there  and  cry;  it's  so  sensible; 
and  I  'ain't  said  that  a  June  wed- 
din'  wouldn't  be  a  little  nicer.  But 
what  you  goin'  to  live  on?  Joe  can't  git 
his  money  that  soon." 

"He — said  he  thought  he  could  man 
age.  But  I  won't  be  married  at  all  if  I 
can't  have  it — right." 

"Well,  you  can  have  it  right.  All  is, 
there  are  some  folks  in  this  town  that  if 
they  don't  calculate  doin'  real  well  by 
you,  I  don't  feel  called  upon  to  invite." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  sobbed 
the  girl.  She  sat  by  the  kitchen  table, 
her  face  hidden  in  her  arms.  Her  mother 
stood  looking  at  her  tenderly,  and  yet 
with  a  certain  anger. 

"I  mean  about  the  presents.  You've 
worked  in  the  church,  you've  sung  in  the 
choir  for  years,  and  now  it's  a  chance  for 
folks  to  show  that  they  appreciate  it,  and 
without  they're  goin'  to —  Boxes  of  cake 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       197 

would  be  plenty  if  they  wa'n't  goin'  to 
serve  you  any  better  than  they  did  Ella 
Plummer." 

Esther  Robinson  lifted  her  head.  She 
was  quite  large,  in  a  soft  young  way,  and 
her  skin  was  as  pure  as  a  baby's.  "  But 
you  can't  know  beforehand  how  they're 
going  to  treat  me !" 

"  Yes,  I  can  know  beforehand,  too,  and 
if  you're  set  on  next  month,  it's  none  too- 
soon  to  be  seem'  about  it.  I've  a  good 
mind  to  step  over  to  Mis'  Lawrence's  and 
Mis'  Stetson's  this  afternoon." 

"  Mother !  You — wouldn't  ask  'em  any 
thing?" 

Mrs.  Robinson  hung  away  her  dish- 
towel  ;  then  she  faced  Esther.  "  Of  course 
I  wouldn't  asJc  'em ;  there's  other  ways  of 
findin'  out  besides  asking.  I'd  bring  the 
subject  round  by  saying  I  hoped  there 
wouldn't  be  many  duplicates,  and  I'd 
git  out  of  'em  what  they  intended  givin' 
without  seemin'  to."  ^Esther  looked  at 
her  mother  with  a  sort  of  fascination. 
"  Then  we  could  give  some  idea  about 
the  refreshments;  for  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
have  no  elaborate  layout  without  I  do 
know;  and  it  ain't  because  I  grudge  the 
money,  either,"  she  added,  in  swift  self- 
defence. 

Mrs.  Robinson  was  a  good  manager  of 


198  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  moderate  means  her  husband  had  left 
her,  but  she  was  not  parsimonious  or  in 
hospitable.  Now  she  was  actuated  by  a 
fierce  maternal  jealousy.  Esther,  despite 
her  pleasant  ways  and  her  helpfulness, 
was  often  overlooked  in  a  social  way. 
This  was  due  to  her  mother.  The  more 
pretentious  laughed  about  Mrs.  Eobinson, 
and  though  the  thrifty,  contented  house 
wife  never  missed  the  amenities  which 
might  have  been  extended  to  her,  she  was 
keenly  alive  to  any  slights  put  upon  her 
daughter.  And  so  it  was  now. 

Mrs.  Lawrence,  a  rich,  childless  old 
lady,  lived  next  door,  and  about  four 
o'clock  she  went  over  there.  The  girl 
watched  her  departure  doubtfully,  but  the 
possibility  of  not  having  a  large  wedding 
kept  her  from  giving  a  full  expression  to 
her  feelings. 

Esther  had  always  dreamed  of  her 
wedding;  she  had  looked  forward  to  it 
just  as  definitely  before  she  met  Joe 
Elsworth  as  after  her  engagement  to 
him.  There  would  be  flowers  and  guests 
and  feasting,  and  she  would  be  the  centre 
of  it  all  in  a  white  dress  and  veil. 

She  had  never  thought  about  there  be 
ing  any  presents.  Now  for  the  first  time 
she  thought  of  them  as  an  added  glory, 
but  her  imagination  did  not  extend  to  the 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       199 

separate  articles  or  to  their  givers.  Esther 
never  pictured  her  uncle  Jonas  at  the 
wedding,  yet  he  would  surely  be  in  at 
tendance  in  his  rough  farmer  clothes,  his 
grizzled,  keen  old  face  towering  above  the 
other  guests.  She  did  not  picture  her 
friends  as  she  really  knew  them;  the 
young  men  would  be  fine  gentlemen,  and 
the  girls  ladies  in  wonderful  toilets.  As 
for  herself  and  Joe,  hidden  away  in  a 
bureau  drawer  Esther  had  a  poster  of  one 
of  Frohman's  plays.  It  represented  a 
bride  and  groom  standing  together  in  a 
drift  of  orange  blossoms. 

Mrs.  Robinson  did  not  return  at  supper- 
time,  and  Esther  ate  alone.  At  eight 
o'clock  Joe  Elsworth  came.  She  met  him 
at  the  door,  and  they  kissed  in  the  entry. 
Then  Joe  preceded  her  in,  and  hung  up 
his  cap  on  a  projecting  knob  of  the  what 
not — that  was  where  he  always  put  it. 
He  glanced  into  the  dining-room  and. took 
in  the  waiting  table. 

"  Haven't  you  had  supper  yet  ?" 

"  Mother  isn't  home." 

He  came  towards  her  swiftly;  his  eyes 
shone  with  a  sudden  elated  tenderness. 
She  raised  her  arms  and  turned  away  her 
face,  but  he  swept  aside  the  ineffectual 
barrier.  When  he  let  her  go  she  seated 
herself  on  the  farther  side  of  the  room, 


200  Harper's  Novelettes 

Her  glance  was  full  of  a  soft  rebuke.  He 
met  it,  then  looked  down  smilingly  and 
awkwardly  at  his  shoes. 

"Where  did  you  say  your  ma  had 
gone?" 

"  She's  gone  to  Mis'  Lawrence's,  and  a 
few  other  places." 

"Oh,  calling.  Old  Mis'  Norton  goes 
about  twice  a  year,  and  I  ask  her  what  it 
amounts  to." 

"I  guess  you'll  find  ma's  calls  '11 
amount  to  something." 

"How's  that?"  he  demanded. 

"  She's — going  to  try  and  find  out  what 
they  intend  giving." 

"What  they  intend  giving?" 

"Yes.  And  without  they  intend  giv 
ing  something  worth  while,  she  says  she 
won't  invite  'em,  and  maybe  we  won't 
have  a  big  wedding  at  all,"  she  finished, 
pathetically. 

Joe  did  not  answer.  Esther  stole  an 
appealing  glance  at  him. 

"  Does  it  seem  a  queer  thing  to  do  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  rather." 

Her  face  quivered.  "  She  said  I'd  done 
so  much  for  Mis'  Lawrence — " 

"Well,  you  have,  and  I've  wished  a 
good  many  times  that  you  wouldn't.  I'm 
sure  I  never  knuckled  to  her,  though  she 
is  my  great-aunt." 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       201 

"  I  never  knuckled  to  her,  either,"  pro 
tested  Esther. 

"  You've  done  a  sight  more  for  her 
than  1  would  have  done,  fbdn'  her  dresses 
and  things,  and  she  with  more  money 
than  anybody  else  in  town.  But  your 
mother  ain't  going  to  call  on  everybody, 
is  she  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"Of  course  she  ain't.  Only  she  said, 
if  it  was  going  to  be  in  June — but  I  don't 
Want  it  to  be  ever,"  she  added,  covering 
her  face. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  Joe,  penitent 
ly.  He  went  over  and  put  his  arm  around 
her.  Nevertheless,  his  eyes  held  a  wor 
ried  look. 

Joe's  father  had  bound  him  out  to  a 
farmer  by  the  name  of  Norton  until  his 
majority,  when  the  sum  of  seven  hundred 
dollars,  all  the  little  fortune  the  father 
had  left,  together  with  three  hundred 
more  from  Norton,  was  to  be  turned  over 
to  him.  But  Joe  would  not  be  twenty- 
one  until  October.  It  was  going  to  be 
difficult  for  him  to  arrange  for  the  June 
wedding  Esther  desired.  He  was  very 
much  in  love,  however,  and  presently  he 
lifted  his  boyish  cheek  from  her  hair. 

"  I  think  I'll  take  that  cottage  of  Lan- 
ham's;  it's  the  only  vacant  house  in  the 
village,  and  he's  promised  to  wait  for  the 


202  Harper's  Novelettes 

rent,  so  that  confounded  old  Norton  need 
n't  advance  me  a  cent." 

Esther  flushed.  "  What  do  you  sup 
pose  makes  him  act  so?"  she  questioned, 
though  she  knew. 

Joe  blushed  too0  "  He  don't  like  it  be 
cause  I'm  going  to  work  in  the  factory 
when  it  opens.  But  Mis'  Norton  and 
Sarah  have  done  everything  for  me,"  he 
added,  decidedly. 

Up  to  the  time  of  his  engagement  Joe 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  showing  Sarah 
Norton  an  occasional  brotherly  attention, 
and  he  would  have  continued  to  do  so 
had  not  Esther  and  Mrs.  Robinson  inter 
fered — Esther  from  girlish  jealousy,  and 
her  mother  because  she  did  not  approve 
of  the  family,  she  said.  She  could  not 
say  she  did  not  approve  of  Sarah,  for 
there  was  not  a  more  upright,  self-respect 
ing  girl  in  the  village.  But  Sarah,  be 
cause  of  her  father's  miserliness,  often 
went  out  for  extra  work  when  the  neigh 
bors  needed  help,  and  this  was  the  real 
cause  of  Mrs.  Robinson's  feeling.  Un 
consciously  she  made  the  same  distinc 
tion  between  Sarah  Norton  and  Esther 
that  some  of  the  more  ambitious  of  the 
village  mothers  made,  between  their  girls 
and  her  own  daughter.  Then  it  was  com 
mon  talk  that  old  Jim  Norton,  for  obvi- 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       203 

ous  reasons,  was  displeased  with  Joe's 
matrimonial  plans,  but  Mrs.  Robinson 
professed  to  believe  that  the  wife  and 
daughter  were  really  the  ones  disappoint 
ed.  Now  Esther  began  twisting  a  button 
of  Joe's  coat. 

"I  don't  believe  mother  '11  ask  either 
of  'em  to  the  wedding,"  said  she. 

When  Mrs.  Eobinson  entered,  Esther 
stood  expectant  and  fearful  by  the  table. 
Her  mother  drew  up  a  chair  and  reached 
for  the  bread. 

"I  didn't  stop  anywhere  for  supper. 
You've  had  yours,  'ain't  you  2" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Joe  come?" 

"He  just  left." 

But  Mrs.  Robinson  was  not  to  be  hur 
ried  into  divulging  the  result  of  her 
calls.  She  remained  massively  mysterious. 
Esther  began  to  wish  she  had  not  hurried 
Joe  off  so  unceremoniously.  After  her 
first  cup  of  tea,  however,  her  mother  ask 
ed  for  a  slip  of  paper  and  a  pencil.  "I 
want  that  pencil  in  my  machine  drawer, 
that  writes  black,  and  any  kind  of  paper 
'11  do,"  she  said. 

Esther  brought  them ;  then  she  took  up 
her  sewing.  She  was  not  without  a  cer 
tain  self-restraint.  Mrs.  Robinson,  be 
tween  her  sips  of  tea,  wrote.  The  soft 


204  Harper's  Novelettes 

gurgle  of  her  drinking  annoyed  Esther, 
and  she  had  a  tingling  desire  to  snatch 
the  paper.  After  a  last  misdirected  plac 
ing  of  her  cup  in  her  plate,  however, 
her  mother  looked  up  and  smiled  trium 
phantly. 

"I  guess  we'll  have  to  plan  something 
different  than  boxes  of  cake.  Listen  to 
this;  Mis'  Lawrence —  No,  I  won't  read 
that  yet.  Mis'  Manning — I  went  in  there 
because  I  thought  about  her  not  inviting 
you  when  she  gave  that  library  party — 
one  salt  and  pepper  with  rose-buds  paint 
ed  on  'em." 

Esther  leaned  forward;  her  face  was 
crimson. 

"You  needn't  look  so,"  remonstrated 
her  mother.  "It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
keep  from  laughing  at  the  way  she  acted. 
I  just  mentioned  that  we  were  only  goin' 
to  invite  those  you  were  indebted  to,  and 
she  went  and  fetched  out  that  salt  and 
pepper.  I  believe  she  said  they  was  in 
tended  in  the  first  place  for  some  relative 
that  didn't  git  married  in  the  end." 

The  girl  made  an  inarticulate  noise  in 
her  throat.  Her  mother  continued,  in  a 
loud,  impressive  tone : 

"  Mis'  Stetson — something  worked.  She 
hasn't  quite  decided  what,  but  she's  goin' 
to  let  me  know  about  it.  Jane  Watson — " 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       205 

"  You  didn't  go  there,  mother !" 

Mrs.  Robinson  treated  her  daughter  to 
a  contemptuous  look.  "I  guess  I've  got 
sense.  Jane  was  at  Mis'  Stetson's,  and 
when  I  came  away  she  went  along  with 
me,  and  insisted  that  I  should  stop  and 
see  some  lamp-lighters  she'd  got  to  copy 
from — those  paper  balls.  She  seemed 
afraid  a  string  of  those  wouldn't  be 
enough,  but  I  told  her  how  pretty  they 
was,  and  how  much  you'd  be  pleased." 

"  I  guess  I'll  think  a  good  deal  more  of 
'em  than  I  will  of  Mis'  Manning's  salt  and 
pepper."  Esther  was  very  near  tears. 

"Next  I  went  to  the  Rogerses,  and 
they've  about  concluded  to  give  you  a 
lamp;  and  they  can  afford  to.  Then 
that's  all  the  places  I've  been,  except  to 
Mis'  Lawrence's,  and  she" — Mrs.  Robin 
son  paused  for  emphasis — "  she's  goin'  to 
give  you  a  silver  tea-set!" 

Esther  looked  at  her  mother,  her  red 
lips  apart. 

"  That  was  the  first  place  I  called,  and 
I  said  pretty  plain  what  I  was  gittin'  at ; 
but  after  I  knew  about  the  water-set,  that 
settled  what  kind  of  weddin'  we'd  have." 

But  the  next  morning  the  world  looked 
different.  Her  rheumatic  foot  ached,  and 
that  always  affected  her  temper ;  but  when 


so6  Harper's  Novelettes 

they  sat  down  to  sew,  the  real  cause  of 
her  irascibleness  came  out. 

"Mis'  Lawrence  wa'n't  any  more  civil 
than  she  need  be,"  she  remarked.  "I 
guess  she'd  decided  she'd  got  to  do  some 
thing,  being  related  to  Joe.  She  said  she 
supposed  you  were  expecting  a  good  many 
presents;  and  I  said  no,  you  didn't  look 
for  many,  and  there  were  some  that 
you'd  done  a  good  deal  for  that  you 
knew  better  than  to  expect  anything 
from.  I  was  mad.  Then  she  turned 
kind  of  red,  and  mentioned  about  the 
water-set." 

And  in  the  afternoon  a  young  girl  ac 
quaintance  added  to  Esther's  perturba 
tion.  "I  just  met  Susan  Rogers,"  she 
confided  to  the  other,  "  and  she  said  they 
hated  to  give  that  lamp,  but  they  sup 
posed  they  were  in  for  it." 

Esther  was  not  herself  for  some  days. 
All  her  pretty  dreams  were  blotted  out, 
and  a  morbid  embarrassment  took  hold 
of  her;  but  she  was  roused  to  something 
like  her  old  interest  when  the  presents 
began  to  come  in  and  she  saw  her  moth 
er's  active  preparations  for  the  wed 
ding — the  more  so  as  over  the  village 
seemed  to  have  spread  a  pleasant  excite 
ment  concerning  the  event.  Presents  ar 
rived  from  unexpected  sources,  so  that  in^ 


The  Marrying  of  Esther        207 

vitations  had  to  be  sent  afterwards  to  the 
givers.  Women  who  had  never  crossed 
the  Robinson  threshold  came  now  like 
Hindoo  gift-bearers  before  some  deity 
whom  they  wished  to  propitiate.  Meet 
ing  there,  they  exchanged  droll,  half- 
deprecating  glances.  Mrs.  Robinson's 
calls  had  formed  the  subject  of  much 
laughing  comment;  but  weddings  were 
not  common  in  Marshfield,  and  the  de 
sire  to  be  bidden  to  this  one  was  univer 
sal;  it  spread  like  an  epidemic. 

Mrs.  Robinson  was  at  first  elated.  She 
overlooked  the  matter  of  duplicates,  and 
accepted  graciously  every  article  that  was 
tendered — from  a  patch-work  quilt  to  a 
hem-stitched  handkerchief.  "You  can't 
have  too  many  of  some  things,"  she  re 
marked  to  Esther.  But  later  she  reversed 
this  statement.  Match-safes,  photograph- 
frames,  and  pretty  nothings  accumulated 
to  an  alarming  extent. 

"  Now  that's  the  last  pin-cushion  you're 
goin'  to  take,"  she  declared,  as  she  re 
turned  from  answering  a  call  at  the  door 
one  evening.  "  There's  fourteen  in  the 
parlor  now.  Some  folks  seem  to  have 
gone  crazy  on  pin-cushions." 

She  grew  confused,  and  the  next  day 
she  went  into  the  parlor,  which,  owing  to 
the  nature  of  the  display,  resembled  a 


208  Harper's  Novelettes 

booth  at  a  church  fair,  and  made  an  accu 
rate  list  of  the  articles  received.  When 
she  emerged,  her  large,  handsome  face 
was  quite  flushed. 

"  Little  wabbly,  fall-down  things,  most 
of  'em.  It  '11  take  you  a  week  to  dust 
your  house  if  you  have  all  those  things 
standin'  round." 

"  Well,  I  ain't  go  in'  to  put  none  of  'em 
away,"  declared  Esther.  "I  like  orna 
ments." 

"  Glad  you  do ;  you've  got  enough  of 
'em,  land  knows.  Ornaments!"  The  very 
word  seemed  to  incense  her.  "  I  guess 
you'll  find  there's  something  needed  be 
sides  ornaments  when  you  come  right 
down  to  livin'.  Tor  one  thing,  you're 
awful  short  of  dishes  and  bedding,  and 
you  can't  ever  have  no  company — unless," 
she  added,  with  withering  sarcasm,  "  you 
give  'em  little  vases  to  drink  out  of,  and 
put  'em  to  bed  under  a  picture-drape, 
with  a  pin-cushion  or  a  scent-bag  for  a 
piller." 

And  from  that  time  Mrs.  Kobinson  ac 
cepted  no  gift  without  first  consulting 
her  list.  It  became  known  that  she 
looked  upon  useful  articles  with  favor, 
and  brooms  and  flat-irons  and  bright  tin 
ware  arrived  constantly.  Then  it  was 
that  the  heterogeneous  collection  began 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       209 

to  pall  upon  Esther.  The  water-set  had 
not  yet  been  presented,  but  its  magnifi 
cence  grew  upon  her,  and  she  persuaded 
Joe  to  get  a  spindle-legged  stand  on  which 
to  place  it,  although  he  could  not  furnish 
the  cottage  until  October,  and  had  gone 
in  debt  for  the  few  necessary  things.  She 
pictured  the  combination  first  in  one  cor 
ner  of  the  little  parlor,  then  another, 
finally  in  a  window  where  it  could  be  seen 
from  the  road. 

Esther's  standards  did  not  vary  greatly 
from  her  mother's,  but  she  had  a  bewil 
dered  sense  that  they  were  somehow  step 
ping  from  the  beaten  track  of  custom. 
On  one  or  two  points,  however,  she  was 
firm.  The  few  novels  that  had  come  with 
in  her  reach  she  had  conned  faithfully. 
Thus,  even  before  she  had  a  lover,  she 
had  decided  that  the  most  impressive 
hour  for  a  wedding  was  sunrise,  and  had 
arranged  the  procession  which  was  to 
wend  its  way  towards  the  church.  And 
in  these  matters  her  mother,  respecting 
her  superior  judgment,  stood  stanchly  by 
her. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  eventful  morn 
ing  arrived  she  was  bitterly  disappointed. 
She  had  set  her  heart  on  having  the 
church  bell  rung,  and  overlooked  the  fact 
that  the  meeting-house  bell  was  cracked, 
14  D.G. 


210  Harper's  Novelettes 

till  Joe  reminded  her.  Then  the  weather 
was  unexpectedly  chilly.  A  damp  fog, 
not  yet  dispersed  by  the  sun,  hung  over 
the  harely  awakened  village,  and  the  lit 
tle  flower-girl  shivered.  She  had  a  shawl 
pinned  about  her,  and  when  the  proces 
sion  was  fairly  started  she  tripped  over  it, 
and  there  was  a  halt  while  she  gathered 
up  the  roses  and  geraniums  in  her  little 
trembling  hands  and  thrust  them  back 
into  the  basket.  Celia  Smith  tittered. 
Celia  was  the  bridesmaid,  and  was  accom 
panied  by  Joe's  friend,  red-headed  Harry 
Baker;  and  Mrs.  Robinson  and  Uncle 
Jonas,  who  were  far  behind,  made  the 
most  of  the  delay.  Mrs.  Robinson  often 
explained  that  she  was  not  a  "  good  walk 
er,"  and  her  brother-in-law  tried  jocularly 
to  help  her  along,  although  he  used  a 
cane  himself.  His  weather-beaten  old 
face  was  beaming,  but  it  was  as  though 
the  smiles  were  set  between  the  wrinkles, 
for  he  kept  his  mouth  sober.  He  had  a 
flower  in  his  button-hole,  which  gave  him 
a  festive  air,  despite  the  fact  that  his 
clothes  were  distinctly  untidy.  Several 
buttons  were  off:  he  had  no  wife  to  keep 
them  sewed  on. 

Esther  had  given  but  one  glance  at 
him.  Her  head  under  its  lace  veil  bent 
lower  and  lower.  The  flounces  of  her 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       211 

skirt  stood  out  about  her  like  the  delicate 
bell  of  a  hollyhock;  she  followed  the  way 
falteringly.  Joe,  his  young  eyes  radiant, 
inclined  his  curly  head  towards  her,  but 
she  did  not  heed  him.  The  little  proces 
sion  was  as  an  awkward  garment  which 
hampered  and  abashed  her;  but  just  as 
they  reached  the  church  the  sun  crept 
above  the  tree-tops,  and  from  the  bleak 
ness  of  dawn  the  whole  scene  warmed 
into  the  glorious  beauty  of  a  June  day. 
The  guests  lost  their  aspect  of  chilled 
waiting;  Esther  caught  their  admiring 
glances.  For  one  brief  moment  her  tri 
umph  was  complete;  the  next  she  had 
overstepped  its  bounds.  She  went  for 
ward  scarcely  touching  Joe's  arm.  Her 
great  desire  became  a  definite  purpose. 
She  whispered  to  a  member  of  her  Sun 
day-school  class,  a  little  fellow.  He  looked 
at  her  wonderingly  at  first,  then  darted 
forward  and  grasped  the  rope  which  dan 
gled  down  in  a  corner  of  the  vestibule. 
He  pulled  with  a  will,  but  even  as  the  old 
bell  responded  with  a  hoarse  clank,  his 
arms  jerked  upward,  and  with  curls  fly 
ing  and  fat  legs  extended  he  ascended 
straight  to  the  ceiling. 

"  Oh,  suz,  the  Lord's  taking  him  right 
up!"  shrieked  an  old  woman,  the  sepul 
chral  explanation  of  the  broken  bell  but 


212  Harper's  Novelettes 

serving  to  intensify  her  terror ;  and  there 
were  others  who  refused  to  understand, 
even  when  his  sister  caught  him  by  the 
heels.  She  was  very  white,  and  she  shook 
him  before  she  set  him  down.  Too  scared 
to  realize  where  he  was,  he  fought  her, 
his  little  face  quite  red,  and  his  blouse 
strained  up  so  that  it  revealed  the  girth 
of  his  round  little  body  in  its  knitted 
undershirt. 

"  Le'  me  go,"  he  whimpered ;  "  she 
telled  me  to  do  it." 

His  words  broke  through  the  general 
amazement  like  a  stone  through  the  icy 
surface  of  a  stream.  The  guests  gave 
way  to  mirth.  Some  of  the  young  girls 
averted  their  faces;  they  could  not  look 
at  Esther.  The  matrons  tilted  their  bon 
neted  heads  towards  one  another  and 
shook  softly.  "  I  thought  at  first  it  might 
be  a  part  of  the  show,"  whispered  one, 
"  but  I  guess  it  wasn't  planned." 

Esther  was  conscious  of  every  whisper 
and  every  glance;  shame  seemed  to  en 
gulf  her,  but  she  entered  the  church  hold 
ing  her  head  high.  When  they  emerged 
into  the  sunshine  again,  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  run  away,  but  she  was  forced 
to  pause  while  her  mother  made  an  an 
nouncement. 

"  The   refreshments   will   be   ready  by 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       213 

ten,"  she  said,  "  and  as  we  calculate  to 
keep  the  tables  runnin'  all  day,  those 
that  can't  come  one  time  can  come  an 
other." 

After  which  there  was  a  little  rice- 
throwing,  and  the  young  couple  departed. 
The  frolic  partly  revived  Esther's  spirits ; 
but  her  mother,  toiling  heavily  along  with 
a  hard  day's  work  before  her,  was  in 
clined  to  speak  her  mind.  Her  brother- 
in-law,  however,  restrained  her. 

"  Seems  to  me  I  never  seen  anything 
quite  so  cute  as  that  little  feller  a-ringin' 
that  bell  for  the  weddin'.  Who  put  him 
up  to  it,  anyhow  ?" 

"Why,  Esther.  She  was  so  set  on 
havin'  a  '  chime/  as  she  called  it." 

"Well,  it  was  a  real  good  idee!  A 
real  good  idee!"  and  he  kept  repeating 
the  phrase  as  though  in  a  perfect  ecstasy 
of  appreciation. 

When  Esther  reached  home,  she  and 
Joe  arranged  the  tables  in  the  side  yard, 
but  when  the  first  guest  turned  in  at  the 
gate  her  mother  sent  her  to  the  house. 
"  Now  you  go  into  the  parlor  and  rest. 
You  can  just  as  well  sit  under  that  dove 
as  stand  under  it,"  she  said. 

The  girl  started  listlessly  to  obey,  but 
the  next  words  revived  her  like  wine : 

"  I  declare  it's  Mis'  Lawrence,  and  she's 


ft  14  Harper's  Novelettes 

bringing  that  water-set;  she  hung  on  to 
it  till  the  last  minit." 

Esther  flew  to  her  chamber  and  donned 
her  veil,  which  she  had  laid  aside,  then 
sped  down-stairs;  but  when  she  passed 
through  the  parlor  she  put  her  hands 
over  her  eyes:  she  wanted  to  look  at  the 
water-set  first  with  Joe.  He  was  no  long 
er  helping  her  mother,  and  she  fluttered 
about  looking  for  him.  The  rooms  would 
soon  be  crowded,  and  then  there  would 
be  no  opportunity  to  examine  the  won 
derful  gift. 

She  darted  down  a  foot-path  that 
crossed  the  yard  diagonally.  It  led  to  a 
gap  in  the  stone-wall  which  opened  on  a 
lane.  Esther  and  Joe  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  walking  here  of  an  evening.  It 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  grassy  way  over 
hung  by  leaning  branches  of  old  fruit 
trees,  but  it  was  a  short-cut  to  the  cottage 
Joe  had  rented.  Now  Esther's  feet,  of 
their  own  volition,  carried  her  here.  She 
slid  through  the  opening.  "Joe!"  she 
called,  and  her  voice  had  the  tremulous 
cadence  of  a  bird  summoning  its  mate; 
but  it  died  away  in  a  little  smothered 
cry,  for  not  a  rod  away  was  Joe,  and  sit 
ting  on  a  large  stone  was  Sarah  Norton. 
They  had  their  backs  towards  her,  and 
were  engaged  in  such  an  earnest  conver- 


The  Marrying  of  Esther        215 

sation  that  they  did  not  hear  her.  Sa 
rah's  shoulders  moved  with  her  quick 
breathing;  she  had  a  hand  on  Joe's  arm. 
Esther  stood  staring,  her  thin  draperies 
circling  about  her,  and  her  childish  face 
pale.  Then  she  turned,  with  a  swift  im 
pulse  to  escape,  but  again  she  paused,  her 
eyes  riveted  in  the  opposite  direction. 
From  where  she  stood  the  back  door  of 
her  future  home  was  visible,  and  two  men 
were  carrying  out  furniture.  Involun 
tarily  she  opened  her  lips  to  call  Joe,  but 
no  sound  came.  Yes,  they  had  the  bu 
reau;  they  would  probably  take  the  spin 
dle-legged  stand  next.  A  strong  protec 
tive  instinct  is  part  of  possession,  and  to 
Esther  that  sight  was  as  a  magnet  to 
steel.  Down  the  grassy  lane  she  sped, 
but  so  lightly  that  the  couple  by  the  wall 
were  as  unobservant  of  her  as  they  were 
of  the  wind  stirring  the  long  grass. 

Sarah  Norton  rose.  "  I  run  every  step 
of  the  way  to  get  here  in  time.  Please, 
Joe !"  she  panted. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  It's  real  kind  of 
you  and  your  mother,  Sarah,  but  I  guess 
I  ain't  going  to  touch  any  of  the  money 
you  worked  for  and  earned,  and  I  can't 
help  but  think,  when  I  talk  to  Lanham — " 

"  I  tell  you,  you  can't  reason  with  him 
in  his  state !" 


ai6  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Well,  I'll  raise  it  somehow." 

"You'll  have  to  be  quick  about  it, 
then,"  she  returned,  concisely.  "  He'll 
be  here  in  a  few  minutes,  and  it's  cash 
down  for  the  first  three  months,  or  he'll 
let  the  other  party  have  it." 

"  But  he  promised—" 

"  That  don't  make  any  difference.  He's 
drunk,  and  he  thought  father'd  offer  to 
make  you  an  advance;  but  father  just 
told  him  to  come  down  here,  that  you 
were  being  married,  and  say  he'd  poke 
all  your  things  out  in  the  road  without 
you  paid." 

The  young  man  turned.  Sarah  blocked 
his  way.  She  was  a  tall,  good-looking 
girl,  somewhat  older  than  Joe,  and  she 
looked  straight  up  into  his  face. 

"  See  here,  Joe ;  you  know  what  makes 
father  act  so,  and  so  do  I,  and  so  does 
mother,  and  mother  and  I  want  you 
should  take  this  money;  it  '11  make  us 
feel  better."  Sarah  flushed,  but  she  look 
ed  at  him  as  directly  as  if  she  had  been 
his  sister. 

Joe  felt  an  admiration  for  her  that  was 
almost  reverence.  It  carried  him  for  the 
moment  beyond  the  consideration  of  his 
own  predicament. 

"No,  I  don't  know  what  makes  him 
act  so  either,"  he  cried,  hotly.  "Oh 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       217 

Lord,  Sarah,  you  sha'n't  say  such  a 
thing!" 

She  interrupted  him.  "Won't  you 
take  it?" 

He  turned  again :  "  You're  just  as  good 
as  you  can  be,  but  I  can  manage  some 
way." 

"I'll  watch  for  Lanham,"  she  answer 
ed,  quietly,  "  and  keep  him  talking  as 
long  as  I  can.  He's  just  drunk  enough 
to  make  a  scene." 

Half-way  to  the  house,  Joe  met  Harry 
Barker. 

"What  did  she  want?"  he  inquired, 
curiously. 

When  Joe  told  him  he  plunged  into 
his  pocket  and  drew  out  two  dollars,  then 
offered  to  go  among  the  young  fellows 
and  collect  the  balance  of  the  amount, 
but  Joe  caught  hold  of  him. 

"  Think  of  something  else." 

"  I  could  explain  to  the  boys — " 

"  You  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Lawrence  if  she 
won't  step  out  on  the  porch,"  the  other 
commanded;  "she's  my  great-aunt,  and 
I  never  asked  anything  of  her  before." 

But  Mrs.  Lawrence  was  not  sympathet 
ic.  She  told  Joe  flatly  that  she  never 
lent  money,  and  that  the  water-set  was  as 
much  as  she  could  afford  to  give.  "It 
ain't  paid  for,  though,"  she  added;  "and 


218  Harper's  Novelettes 

if  you'd  rather  have  the  money,  I  suppose 
I  can  send  it  back.  But  seems  to  me  I 
shouldn't  have  been  in  such  an  awful 
hurry  to  git  married;  I  should  V  waited 
a  month  or  so,  till  I  had  something  to  git 
married  on.  But  you're  just  like  your 
father  —  never  had  no  calculation.  Do 
you  want  I  should  return  that  silver  ?" 

Joe  hesitated.  It  was  an  easy  way  out 
of  the  difficulty.  Then  a  vision  of  Esther 
rose  before  him,  and  the  innocent  prep 
arations  she  had  been  making  for  the  dis 
play  of  the  gift.  "No,"  he  answered, 
shortly.  And  Mrs.  Lawrence,  with  a 
shake  of  the  shoulders  as  though  she 
threw  off  all  responsibility  in  her  young 
relative's  affairs,  bustled  away.  "  I'm 
going  to  keep  that  water-set  if  everything 
else  has  to  go,"  he  declared  to  the  aston 
ished  Harry.  "  Let  'em  set  me  out  in  the 
road;  I  guess  I'll  git  along."  He  had  a 
humorous  vision  of  himself  and  Esther 
trudging  forth,  with  the  water-set  be 
tween  them,  to  seek  their  fortune. 

He  flung  himself  from  the  porch,  and 
was  confronted  by  Jonas  Ingram.  The 
old  fellow  emerged  .from  behind  a  lilac- 
bush  with  a  guilty  yet  excited  air. 

"Young  man,  I  ain't  given  to  eaves 
dropping,  but  I  was  strollin'  along  here 
and  I  heered  it  all ;  and  as  I  was  calcula- 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       219 

tin'  to  give  my  niece  a  present — "  He 
broke  off  and  laid  a  hand  on  Joe's  arm. 
"Where  is  that  dod-blasted  fool  of  a 
Lanham?  I'll  pay  him;  then  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  his  dum  body!"  he  ex 
claimed,  waxing  profane.  "  Come  here 
disturbin'  decent  folks'  weddin's!  Where 
is  he?" 

He  started  off  down  the  path,  striking 
out  savagely  with  his  stick.  Joe  watched 
him  a  moment,  then  put  after  him,  and 
Harry  Barker  followed. 

"  If  this  ain't  the  liveliest  weddin' !" 

Nevertheless,  he  was  disappointed  in 
his  expectations  of  an  encounter.  When 
the  trio  emerged  through  the  gap  in  the 
wall  they  found  only  Sarah  Norton  await 
ing  them. 

"Lanham's  come  and  gone,"  she  an 
nounced.  "  No,  I  didn't  give  him  a  thing, 
except  a  piece  of  my  mind,"  she  answer 
ed,  in  response  to  a  look  from  Joe.  "  I 
told  him  that  he  was  acting  like  a  fool; 
that  father  was  in  for  a  thousand  dollars 
to  you  in  the  fall,  and  that  you  would  pay 
then,  as  you  promised,  and  that  he'd  bet 
ter  clear  out." 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  jest  git  a  holt  of  him!" 
muttered  Jonas  Ingram. 

"  That  seemed  to  sober  him,"  continued 
the  girl ;  "  but  he  said  he  wasn't  the  only 


220  Harper's  Novelettes 

one  that  had  got  scared;  that  Merrill  was 
going  for  his  tables  and  chairs ;  but  Lan- 
ham  said  he'd  run  up  to  the  cottage,  and 
if  he  was  there,  he'd  send  him  off.  You 
see,  father  threw  out  as  if  he  wasn't  owing 
you  anything,"  she  added,  in  a  lower 
voice,  "  and  that's  what  stirred  'em  up." 

Joe  turned  white,  in  a  sudden  heat  of 
anger — the  first  he  had  shown.  "  I'll  stir 
him — "  he  began;  then  his  eyes  met  hers. 
He  reddened.  "  Oh,  Sarah,  I'm  ever  so 
much  obliged  to  you!" 

"  It  was  nothing.  I  guess  it  was  lucky 
I  wasn't  invited  to  the  wedding,  though." 
She  laughed,  and  started  away,  leaving 
Joe  abashed.  She  glanced  back.  "  I  hope 
none  of  this  foolishness  '11  reach  Mis'  Els- 
worth's  ears,"  she  called,  in  a  friendly 
voice. 

"I  hope  it  won't,"  muttered  Joe,  fer 
vently,  and  stood  watching  her  till  the 
old  man  pulled  his  sleeve. 

"  Lanham  may  not  keep  his  word  to 
the  girl.  Best  go  down  there,  hadn't  we  ?" 

The  young  man  made  no  answer,  but 
turned  and  ran.  Pie  longed  for  some  one 
to  wreak  vengeance  on.  The  other  two 
had  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  him. 
The  first  object  that  attracted  their  atten 
tion  was  the  bureau.  It  was  standing  be 
side  the  back  steps.  Joe  tried  the  door; 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       221 

it  was  fastened.  He  drew  forth  the  key 
and  fitted  it  into  the  lock,  but  still  the 
door  did  not  yield.  He  turned  and  faced 
the  others.  "Some  one's  in  there!" 

Jonas  Ingram  broke  forth  into  an  oath. 
He  shook  his  cane  at  the  house. 

"  Some  one's  in  there,  and  they've  got 
the  door  bolted  on  the  inside,"  continued 
Joe.  His  voice  had  a  strange  sound  even 
to  himself.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  on 
at  his  own  wrath.  He  strode  around  to 
a  window,  but  the  blinds  were  closed ;  the 
blinds  were  closed  all  over  the  house;  ev 
ery  door  was  barred.  Whoever  was  inside 
was  in  utter  darkness.  Joe  came  back 
and  gave  the  door  a  violent  shake;  then 
they  all  listened,  but  only  the  pecking  of 
a  hen  along  the  walk  broke  the  silence. 

"I'll  get  a  crowbar,"  suggested  Harry, 
scowling  in  the  fierce  sunlight.  Jonas 
Ingram  stood  with  his  hair  blowing  out 
from  under  his  hat  and  his  stick  grasped 
firmly  in  his  gnarled  old  hand.  He  was 
all  ready  to  strike.  His  chin  was  thrust 
out  rigidly.  They  both  pressed  close  to 
Joe,  but  he  did  not  heed  them.  He  put 
one  shoulder  against  a  panel;  every  mus 
cle  was  set. 

"  Whoever  you  are,  if  I  have  to  break 
this  door  down — " 

There  was  a  soft  commotion  on  the  in- 


222  Harper's  Novelettes 

side  and  the  bolt  was  drawn.  Joe,  with 
the  other  two  at  his  heels,  fairly  hurst 
into  the  darkened  place,  just  in  time  to 
see  a  white  figure  dart  across  the  room, 
and  cast  itself  in  a  corner.  For  an  in 
stant  they  could  only  blink.  The  figure 
wrapped  its  white  arms  about  some  ob 
ject. 

"You  can  have  everything  but  this 
table;  you  can't  have — this."  The  words 
ended  in  a  frightened  sob. 

"Esther!" 

"  Oh,  Joe!"  She  struggled  to  her  feet, 
then  shrank  back  against  the  wall.  "  Oh, 
I  didn't  know  it  was  you.  Go  'way! 
go  'way!" 

"Why,  Esther,  what  do  you  mean?" 
He  started  towards  her,  but  she  turned 
on  him. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  Where's  who  ?" 

She  did  not  reply,  but  standing  against 
the  wall,  she  stared  at  him  with  a  passion 
ate  scorn. 

"You  don't  mean  Sarah  Norton?" 
asked  Joe,  slowly.  Esther  quivered. 
"  Why,  she  came  to  tell  me  of  the  trouble 
her  father  was  trying  to  get  me  into.  But 
how  did  you  come  here,  Esther?  How 
did  you  know  anything  about  it?" 

She  did  not  answer.    Her  head  sank. 


The  Marrying  of  Esther       223 

"How  did  you,  Esther?" 

"  I  saw — you  in  the  lane,"  she  faltered, 
then  caught  up  her  veil  as  though  it  had 
been  a  pinafore.  Joe  went  up  to  her,  and 
Jonas  Ingram  took  hold  of  Harry  Barker, 
and  the  two  stepped  outside,  but  not  out 
of  ear-shot ;  they  were  still  curious.  They 
could  hear  Esther's  sobbing  voice  at  in 
tervals.  "I  tried  to  make  'em  stop,  but 
they  wouldn't,  and  I  slipped  in  past  'em 
and  bolted  the  door ;  and  when  you  came, 
I  thought  it  was  them — and,  oh!  ain't 
they  our  things,  Joe  ?" 

The  old  man  thrust  his  head  in  at  the 
door.  "Yes,"  he  roared,  then  withdrew. 

"  And  won't  they  take  the  table  away  ?" 

"  No,"  he  roared  again.  "  I'd  just  like 
to  see 'em!" 

Esther  wept  harder.  "  Oh,  I  wish  they 
would;  I  ought  to  give  'em  up.  I  didn't 
care  for  them  after  I  thought — that.  It 
was  just  that  I  had  to  have  something  I 
wouldn't  let  go,  and  I  tried  to  think  only 
of  saving  the  table  for  the  water-set." 

"  Come  mighty  near  bein'  no  water- 
set,"  muttered  Jonas  to  himself;  then  he 
turned  to  his  companion.  "  Young  man, 
I  guess  they  don't  need  us  no  more,"  he 
said. 

When  he  regained  his  sister-in-law's,  he 
encountered  that  lady  carrying  a  stearn- 


224  Harper's  Novelettes 

ing  dish.  Guests  stood  about  under  the 
trees  or  sat  at  the  long  tables. 

"  For  mercy  sakes,  Jonas,  have  you  seen 
Esther?  She  made  fuss  enough  about 
havin'  that  dove  fixed  up  in  the  parlor, 
and  she  and  Joe  ain't  stood  under  it  a 
minit  yet." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  chuckled  the  old  fel 
low.  "  They  ain't  stood  under  no  dove 
of  peace  yet;  they're  just  about  ready  to 
now,  I  reckon." 

And  up  through  the  lane,  all  oblivious, 
the  lovers  were  walking  slowly.  Just 
before  they  reached  the  gap  in  the  wall, 
they  paused  by  common  consent.  Cherry 
and  apple  trees  drooped  over  the  wall; 
these  had  ceased  blossoming,  but  a  tan 
gle  of  wild-rose  bushes  was  all  ablush. 
It  dropped  a  thick  harvest  of  petals  on 
the  ground.  Joe  bent  his  head;  and  Es 
ther,  resting  against  his  shoulder,  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  face.  All  unconsciously 
she  took  the  pose  of  the  woman  in  the 
Frohman  poster.  They  kissed,  and  then 
went  on  slowly. 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance 

BY   JULIAN  EALPH 

COKDELIA  ANGELINE  MA- 
HONEY  was  dressing,  as  she 
would  say,  "to  keep  a  date"  with 
a  beau,  who  would  soon  be  waiting  on 
the  corner  nearest  her  home  in  the  Big 
Barracks  tenement-house.  She  smiled 
as  she  heard  the  shrill  catcall  of  a  lad 
in  Eorsyth  Street.  She  knew  it  was 
Dutch  Johnny's  signal  to  Chrissie  Bergen 
to  come  down  and  meet  him  at  the  street 
doorway.  Presently  she  heard  another 
call — a  birdlike  whistle — and  she  knew 
which  boy's  note  it  was,  and  which  girl  it 
called  out  of  her  home  for  a  sidewalk 
stroll.  She  smiled,  a  trifle  sadly,  and  yet 
triumphantly.  She  had  enjoyed  herself 
when  she  was  no  wiser  and  looked  no 
higher  than  the  younger  Barracks  girls, 
who  took  up  the  boys  of  the  neighborhood 
as  if  there  were  no  others. 

She  was  in  her  own  little  dark  inner 

room,   which   she   shared  with   only  two 
is  D.G. 


226  Harper's  Novelettes 

others  of  the  family,  arranging  a  careful 
toilet  by  kerosene-light.  The  photograph 
of  herself  in  trunks  and  tights,  of  which 
we  heard  in  the  story  of  Elsa  Muller's 
hopeless  love,  was  before  her,  among  sev 
eral  portraits  of  actresses  and  salaried 
beauties.  She  had  taken  them  out  from 
under  the  paper  in  the  top  drawer  of  the 
bureau.  She  always  kept  them  there,  and 
always  took  them  out  and  spread  them  in 
the  lamp-light  when  she  was  alone  in  her 
room.  She  glanced  approvingly  at  the 
portrait  of  herself  as  a  picture  of  which 
she  had  said  to  more  than  one  girlish  con 
fidante  that  it  showed  as  neat  a  figure  and 
as  perfectly  shaped  limbs  as  any  actress's 
she  had  ever  seen.  But  the  suggestion 
of  a  frown  flitted  across  her  brow  as  she 
thought  how  silly  she  was  to  have  once 
been  "  stage-struck  " — how  foolish  to  have 
thought  that  mere  beauty  could  quickly 
raise  a  poor  girl  to  a  high  place  on  the 
stage.  Julia  Fogarty's  case  proved  that. 
Julia  and  she  were  stage-struck  together, 
and  where  was  Julia — or  Corynne  Bel 
vedere,  as  she  now  called  herself?  She 
started  well  as  a  figurante  in  a  comic  op 
era  company  up-town,  but  from  that  she 
dropped  to  a  female  minstrel  troupe  in 
the  Bowery,  and  now,  Lewy  Tusch  told 
Cordelia,  she  was  "  tooing  ter  skirt-tance 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   227 

in  ter  pickernic  parks  for  ter  sick-baby 
fund,  ant  passin'  ter  hat  arount  after- 
warts."  And  evil  was  being  whispered  of 
her — a  pretty  high  price  to  pay  for  such 
small  success;  and  it  must  be  true,  be 
cause  she  sometimes  came  home  late  at 
night  in  cabs,  which  are  devilish,  except 
when  used  at  funerals. 

It  was  Cordelia  who  attracted  Elsa 
Muller's  sweetheart,  Yank  Hurst,  to  her 
side,  and  left  Elsa  to  die  yearning  for  his 
return.  And  it  was  Cordelia  who  threw 
Hurst  aside  when  he  took  to  drink  and 
stabbed  the  young  man  who,  during  a 
mere  walk  from  church,  took  his  place 
beside  Cordelia.  And  yet  Cordelia  was 
only  ambitious,  not  wicked.  Few  men 
live  who  would  not  look  twice  at  her. 
She  was  not  of  the  stunted  tenement  type, 
like  her  friends  Rosie  Mulvey  and  Min 
nie  Bechman  and  Julia  Moriarty.  She 
was  tall  and  large  and  stately,  and  yet 
plump  in  every  outline.  Moreover,  she 
had  the  "  style  "  of  an  American  girl,  and 
looked  as  well  in  five  dollars'  worth  of 
clothes — all  home-made,  except  her  shoes 
and  stockings — as  almost  any  girl  in 
richer  circles.  It  was  too  bad  that  she 
was  called  a  flirt  by  the  young  men,  and 
a  stuck-up  thing  by  the  girls,  when  in 
fact  she  was  merely  more  shrewd  and  cal- 


228  Harper's  Novelettes 

culating  than  the  others,  who  were  con 
tent  to  drift  out  of  the  primary  schools 
into  the  shops,  and  out  of  the  shops  into 
haphazard  matrimony.  Cordelia  was  not 
lovable,  but  not  all  of  us  are  who  may  be 
better  than  she.  She  was  monopolized  by 
the  hope  of  getting  a  man;  but  a  mere 
alliance  with  trousers  was  not  the 
sum  of  her  hope;  they  must  jingle  with 
coin. 

It  was  strange,  then,  that  she  should 
be  dressing  to  meet  Jerry  Donahue,  who 
was  no  better  than  gilly  to  the  Commis 
sioner  of  Public  Works,  drawing  a  small 
salary  from  a  clerkship  he  never  filled, 
while  he  served  the  Commissioner  as  a 
second  left  hand.  But  if  we  could  see 
into  Cordelia's  mind  we  would  be  sur 
prised  to  discover  that  she  did  not  regard 
herself  as  flesh-and-blood  Mahoney,  but 
as  romantic  Clarice  Delamour,  and  she 
only  thought  of  Jerry  as  James  the  but 
ler.  The  voracious  reader  of  the  novels 
of  to-day  will  recall  the  story  of  Clarice, 
or  Only  a  Lady's  -  Maid,  which  many 
consider  the  best  of  the  several  absorb 
ing  tales  that  Lulu  Jane  Tilley  has  writ 
ten.  Cordelia  had  read  it  twenty  times, 
and  almost  knew  it  by  heart.  Her 
constant  dream  was  that  she  could  be 
another  Clarice,  and  shape  her  life  like 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   229 

hers.  The  plot  of  the  novel  needs  to  be 
briefly  told,  since  it  guided  Cordelia's 
course. 

Clarice  was  maid  to  a  wealthy  society 
dowager.  James  the  butler  fell  in  love 
with  Clarice  when  she  first  entered  the 
household,  and  she,  hearing  the  servants' 
gossip  about  James's  savings  and  sal 
ary,  had  encouraged  his  attentions.  He 
pressed  her  to  marry  him.  But  young 
Nicholas  Stuyvesant  came  home  from 
abroad  to  find  his  mother  ill  and  Clarice 
nursing  her.  Every  day  he  noticed  the 
modest  rosy  maid  moving  noiselessly 
about  like  a  sunbeam.  Her  physical  per 
fection  profoundly  impressed  him.  In 
her  presence  he  constantly  talked  to  his 
mother  about  his  admiration  for  healthy 
women.  Each  evening  Clarice  reported 
to  him  the  condition  of  the  mother,  and 
on  one  occasion  mentioned  that  she  had 
never  known  ache,  pain,  or  malady  in 
her  life.  The  young  man  often  chatted 
with  her  in  the  drawing-room,  and  James 
the  butler  got  his  conge.  Mr.  Stuyvesant 
induced  his  mother  to  make  Clarice  her 
companion,  and  then  he  met  her  at  pict 
ure  exhibitions,  and  in  Central  Park  by 
chance,  and  next — every  one  will  recall 
the  exciting  scene — he  paid  passionate 
court  to  her  "in  the  pink  sewing-room, 


230  Harper's  Novelettes 

where  she  had  reclined  on  soft  silken 
sofa  pillows,  with  her  tiny  slippers  upon 
the  head  of  a  lion  whose  skin  formed  a 
rug  before  her."  Clarice  thought  him 
unprincipled,  and  repulsed  him.  When 
the  widow  recovered  her  health  and  went 
to  Newport,  the  former  maid  met  all  so 
ciety  there.  A  gifted  lawyer  fell  a  vic 
tim  to  Clarice's  charms,  and,  on  a  moon 
lit  porch  overlooking  the  sea,  warned  her 
against  young  Stuyvesant.  On  learning 
that  the  roue  had  already  attempted  to 
weaken  the  girl's  high  principles,  to  res 
cue  her  he  made  her  his  wife.  He  was 
soon  afterward  elected  Mayor  of  New 
York,  but  remained  a  suitor  for  his  beau 
tiful  wife's  approbation,  waiting  upon  her 
in  gilded  halls  with  the  fidelity  of  a 
knight  of  old. 

Cordelia  adored  Clarice  and  fancied 
herself  just  like  her  —  beautiful,  ambi 
tious,  poor,  with  a  future  of  her  own 
carving.  Of  course  such  a  case  is  phe 
nomenal.  No  other  young  woman  was 
ever  so  ridiculous. 

"You  have  on  your  besht  dresh,  Cor- 
dalia,"  said  her  mother.  "  It  '11  soon  be 
wore  out,  an'  yell  git  no  other,  wid  your 
father  oidle,  an'  no  wan  airnin'  a  pinny 
but  you  an'  Johnny  an'  Sarah  Eosabel. 
Ewhere  are  ye  goin'?" 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   231 

"  I  won't  be  gone  long,'7  said  Cordelia, 
half  out  of  the  hall  door. 

"Cordalia  Angeline,  darlin',"  said  her 
mother,  "mind,  now,  doan't  let  them  be 
talkin'  about  ye,  fwherever  ye  go — shakin' 
yer  shkirts  an'  rollin'  yer  eyes.  It  doan't 
luk  well  for  a  gyurl  to  be  makin'  hersel' 
attractive." 

"Oh,  mother,  I'm  not  attractive,  and 
you  know  it." 

With  her  head  full  of  meeting  Jerry 
Donahue,  Cordelia  tripped  down  the  four 
nights  of  stairs  to  the  street  door.  As 
Clarice,  she  thought  of  Jerry  as  James 
the  butler ;  in  fact,  all  the  beaux  she  had 
had  of  late  were  so  many  repetitions  of 
the  unfortunate  James  in  her  mind.  All 
the  other  characters  in  her  acquaintance 
were  made  to  fit  more  or  less  loosely  into 
her  romance  life,  and  she  thought  of 
everything  she  did  as  if  it  all  happened 
in  Lulu  Jane  Tilley's  beautiful  novel. 
Let  the  reader  fancy,  if  possible,  what  a 
feat  that  must  have  been  for  a  tenement 
girl  who  had  never  known  what  it  was  to 
have  a  parlor,  in  our  sense  of  the  word, 
who  had  never  known  courtship  to  be 
carried  on  indoors,  except  in  a  tenement 
hallway,  and  who  had  to  imagine  that 
the  sidewalk  flirtations  of  actual  life  were 
meetings  in  private  parks,  that  the 


232          Harper's  Novelettes 

wharves  and  public  squares  and  tenement 
roofs  where  she  had  seen  all  the  young 
men  and  women  making  love  were  heavily 
carpeted  drawing-rooms,  broad  manor- 
house  verandas,  and  the  fragrant  conser 
vatories  of  luxurious  mansions !  But  Cor 
delia  managed  all  this  mental  necroman 
cy  easily,  to  her  own  satisfaction.  And 
now  she  was  tripping  down  the  bare 
wooden  stairs  beside  the  dark  greasy  wall, 
and  thinking  of  her  future  husband,  the 
rich  Mayor,  who  must  be  either  the  bach 
elor  police  captain  of  the  precinct,  or 
George  Fletcher,  the  wealthy  and  unmar 
ried  factory-owner  near  by,  or,  perhaps, 
Senator  Eisenstone,  the  district  leader, 
who,  she  was  forced  to  reflect,  was  an  un 
likely  hero  for  a  Catholic  girl,  since  he 
was  a  Hebrew.  But  just  as  she  reached 
the  street  door  and  decided  that  Jerry 
would  do  well  enough  as  a  mere  tempo 
rary  James  the  butler,  and  while  Jerry 
was  waiting  for  her  on  the  corner,  she 
stepped  from  the  stoop  directly  in  front 
of  George  Fletcher. 

"  Good    evening,"    said    the    wealthy 
young  employer. 

u  Good  evening,  Mr.  Fletcher." 
"It's    very    embarrassing,"    said    Mr. 
Fletcher :   "  I  know  your  given  name — 
Cordelia,   isn't  it? — but  your  last  na — 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   233 

Oh,  thank  you — Miss  Mahoney,  of  course. 
You  know  we  met  at  that  very  queer  wed 
ding  in  the  home  of  my  little  apprentice, 
Joe — the  line-man's  wedding,  you  know."' 

"Te  he!"  Cordelia  giggled.  "Wasn't 
that  a  terrible  strange  wedding?  I  think 
it  was  just  terrible." 

"  Were  you  going  somewhere  ?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  Mr.  Fletcher,"  with 
another  nervous  giggle  or  two.  "I  have 
no  plans  on  me  mind,  only  to  get  out  of 
doors.  It's  terrible  hot,  ain't  it?" 

"May  I  take  a  walk  with  you,  Miss 
Mahoney?" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  if  he  had  called 
her  Clarice  the  whole  novel  would  have 
come  true  then  and  there. 

"  I  can't  be  out  very  late,  Mr.  Fletcher," 
said  she,  with  a  giggle  of  delight. 

"Are  you  sure  I  am  not  disarranging 
your  plans?  Had  you  no  engagements?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  she ;  "  I  was  only  going 
out  with  me  lonely." 

"Let  us  take  just  a  short  walk,  then," 
said  Fletcher;  "only  you  must  be  the 
man  and  take  me  in  charge,  Miss  Maho 
ney,  for  I  never  walked  with  a  young 
lady  in  my  life." 

"  Oh,  certainly  not ;  you  never  did — I 
'don't  think." 

"  Upon  my   honor,   Miss   Mahoney,   I 


234  Harper's  Novelettes 

know  only  one  woman  in  this  city — Miss 
Whitfield,  the  doctor's  daughter,  who 
lives  in  the  same  house  with  you;  and 
only  one  other  in  the  world — my  aunt, 
who  brought  me  up,  in  Vermont." 

Well  indeed  did  Cordelia  know  this. 
All  the  neighborhood  knew  it,  and  most 
of  the  other  girls  were  conscious  of  a  lit 
tle  flutter  in  their  breasts  when  his  eyes 
fell  upon  them  in  the  streets,  for  it  was 
the  gossip  of  all  who  knew  his  workmen 
that  the  prosperous  ladder-builder  lived 
in  his  factory,  where  he  had  spent  the 
life  of  a  monk,  without  any  society  ex 
cept  of  his  canaries,  his  books,  and  his 
workmen. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  sighed  Cordelia. 
"  How  terrible  cunning  you  men  are,  to 
get  up  such  a  story  to  make  all  the  girls 
think  you're  romantic!" 

But,  oh,  how  happy  Cordelia  was! 
At  last  she  had  met  her  prince — the  fu 
ture  Mayor — her  Sultan  of  the  gilded 
halls.  In  that  humid,  sticky,  midsum 
mer  heat  among  the  tenements,  every 
other  woman  dragged  along  as  if  she 
weighed  a  thousand  pounds,  but  Cor 
delia  felt  like  a  feather  floating  among 
clouds. 

The  babel — did  the  reader  ever  walk  up 
Forsyth  Street  on  a  hot  night,  into  Sec- 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   235 

ond  Avenue,  and  across  to  Avenue  A,  and 
tip  to  Tompkins  Park?  The  noise  of  the 
tens  of  thousands  on  the  pavements  makes 
a  babel  that  drowns  the  racket  of  the  carts 
and  cars.  The  talking  of  so  many  per 
sons,  the  squalling  of  so  many  babies,  the 
mothers  scolding  and  slapping  every 
third  child,  the  yelling  of  the  children  at 
play,  the  shouts  and  loud  repartee  of  the 
men  and  women — all  these  noises  rolled 
together  in  the  air  makes  a  steady  hum 
and  roar  that  not  even  the  breakers  on  a 
hard  sea-beach  can  equal.  You  might 
say  that  the  tenements  were  empty,  as 
only  the  very  sick,  who  could  not  move, 
were  in  them.  For  miles  and  miles  they 
were  bare  of  humanity,  each  flat  unguard 
ed  and  unlocked,  with  the  women  on  the 
sidewalks,  with  the  youngest  children  in 
arms  or  in  perambulators,  while  those  of 
the  next  sizes  romped  in  the  streets ;  with 
the  girls  and  boys  of  fourteen  giggling 
in  groups  in  the  doorways  (the  age  and 
places  where  sex  first  asserts  itself),  and 
only  the  young  men  and  women  miss 
ing;  for  they  were  in  the  parks,  on  the 
wharves,  and  on  the  roofs,  all  frolicking 
and  love-making. 

And  every  house  front  was  like  a 
Russian  stove,  expending  the  heat  it 
had  sucked  from  the  all-day  sun.  And 


236  Harpers  Novelettes 

every  door  and  window  breathed  bad 
air — air  without  oxygen,  rich  and  rank 
and  stifling. 

But  Cordelia  was  Clarice,  the  future 
Mayoress.  She  did  not  know  she  was 
picking  a  tiresome  way  around  the  boys 
at  leap-frog,  and  the  mothers  and  babies 
and  baby-carriages.  She  did  not  notice 
the  smells,  or  feel  the  bumps  she  got  from 
those  who  ran  against  her.  She  thought 
she  was  in  the  blue  drawing-room  at  New 
port,  where  a  famous  Hungarian  count 
was  trilling  the  soft  prelude  to  a  csdrdds 
on  the  piano,  and  Mr.  Stuyvesant  had 
just  introduced  her  to  the  future  Mayor, 
who  was  spellbound  by  her  charms,  and 
was  by  her  side,  a  captive.  She  reached 
out  her  hand,  and  it  touched  Mr.  Fletch 
er's  arm  (just  as  a  ragamuffin  propelled 
himself  head  first  against  her),  and  Mr. 
Fletcher  bent  his  elbow,  and  her  wrist 
rested  in  the  crook  of  his  arm.  Oh,  her 
dream  was  true ;  her  dream  was  true ! 

Mr.  Fletcher,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
hardly  in  a  more  natural  relation.  He 
was  trying  to  think  how  the  men  talked 
to  women  in  all  the  literature  he  had 
read.  The  myriad  jokes  about  the  fond 
ness  of  girls  for  ice-cream  recurred  to 
him,  and  he  risked  everything  on  their 
fidelity  to  fact. 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   237 

"Are  you  fond  of  ice-cream?"  he  in 
quired. 

"Oh  no;  I  don't  think,"  said  Cordelia. 
"What  '11  you  ask  next?  What  girl 
ain't  crushed  on  ice-cream,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

"Do  you  know  of  a  nice  place  to  get 
some?" 

"Do  I?  The  Dutchman's,  on  the  av'- 
noo,  another  block  up,  is  the  finest  in  the 
city.  You  get  mo — that  is,  you  get  every 
thing  'way  up  in  G  there,  with  cakes  on 
the  side,  and  it  don't  cost  no  more  than 
anywhere  else." 

So  to  the  German's  they  went,  and 
Clarice  fancied  herself  at  the  Casino  in 
Newport.  All  the  girls  around  her,  who 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  swallow  the  spoons, 
took  on  the  guise  of  blue-blooded  belles, 
while  the  noisy  boys  and  young  men 
(calling  out,  "  Hully  gee,  fellers !  look  at 
Nifty  gittin'  out  der  winder  widout  pay- 
in'!"  and,  "Say,  Tilly,  what  kind  er 
cream  is  dat  you're  feedin'  your  face 
wid?")  seemed  to  her  so  many  millionaires 
and  the  exquisite  sons  thereof.  To  Mr. 
Fletcher  the  German's  back-yard  saloon, 
with  its  green  lattice  walls,  and  its  rusty 
dead  Christmas  trees  in  painted  butter- 
kegs,  appeared  uncommonly  brilliant  and 
fine.  The  fact  that  whenever  he  took  a 


238          Harper's  Novelettes 

swallow  of  water  the  ice-cream  turned  to 
cold  candle-grease  in  his  mouth  made  no 
difference.  He  was  happy,  and  Cordelia 
was  in  an  ecstasy  by  the  time  he  had  paid 
a  shock-headed,  bare-armed  German  wait 
er,  and  they  were  again  on  the  avenue 
side  by  side.  She  put  out  her  hand  and 
rested  it  on  his  arm  again — to  make  sure 
she  was  Clarice. 

One  would  like  to  know  whether,  in 
the  breasts  of  such  as  these,  familiar 
environment  exerts  any  remarkable  in 
fluence.  If  so,  it  could  have  been  in  but 
one  direction.  For  that  part  of  town 
was  one  vast  nursery.  Everywhere,  on 
every  side,  were  the  swarming  babies — a 
baby  for  every  flag-stone  in  the  pave 
ments.  Babies  and  babies,  and  little  be 
sides  babies,  except  larger  children  and 
the  mothers.  Perambulators  with  two, 
even  three,  baby  passengers ;  mothers  with 
as  many  as  five  children  trailing  after 
them;  babies  in  broad  baggy  laps,  babies 
at  the  breast,  babies  creeping,  toppling, 
screaming,  overflowing  into  the  gutters. 
Such  was  the  unbroken  scene  from  the 
Big  Barracks  to  Tompkins  Square ;  ay,  to 
Harlem  and  to  the  East  River,  and  almost 
to  Broadway.  In  the  park,  as  if  the  street 
scenes  had  been  merely  preliminary,  the 
paths  were  alive,  wriggling,  with  babies 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   239 

of  every  age,  from  the  new-born  to  the 
children  in  pigtails  and  knickerbockers 
— and,  lo!  these  were  already  paired  and 
practising  at  courtship.  The  walk  that 
Cordelia  was  taking  was  amid  a  fever, 
a  delirium,  of  maternity — a  rhapsody,  a 
baby's  opera,  if  one  considered  its  noise. 
In  that  vast  region  no  one  inquired 
whether  marriage  was  a  failure.  Nothing 
that  is  old  and  long-beloved  and  human 
is  a  failure  there. 

In  Tompkins  Park,  while  they  dodged 
babies  and  stepped  around  babies  and 
over  them,  they  saw  many  happy  couples 
on  the  settees,  and  they  noticed  that  often 
the  men  held  their  arms  around  the 
waists  of  their  sweethearts.  Girls,  too, 
in  other  instances,  leaned  loving  heads 
against  the  young  men's  breasts,  blissfully 
regardless  of  publicity.  They  passed  a 
young  man  and  a  woman  kissing  passion 
ately,  as  kissing  is  described  by  unmar 
ried  girl  novelists.  Cordelia  thought  it  no 
harm  to  nudge  Mr.  Fletcher  and  whisper : 

"Sakes  alive!  They're  right  in  it, 
ain't  they.  '  It's  funny  when  you  feel 
that  way/  ain't  it  ?" 

As  many  another  man  who  does  not 
know  the  frankness  and  simplicity  of  the 
plain  people  might  have  done,  Mr.  Fletch 
er  misjudged  the  girl.  He  thought  her 


240  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  sort  of  girl  he  was  far  from  seeking. 
He  grew  instantly  cold  and  reserved,  and 
she  knew,  vaguely,  that  she  had  displeased 
him. 

"  I  think  people  who  make  love  in  pub 
lic  should  be  locked  up,"  said  he. 

"  Some  folks  wants  everybody  put  away 
that  enjoys  themselves,"  said  Cordelia. 
Then,  lest  she  had  spoken  too  strongly, 
she  added,  "  Present  company  not  in 
tended,  Mr.  Fletcher,  but  you  said  that 
like  them  mission  folks  that  come  around 
praising  themselves  and  tellin'  us  all  we're 
wicked." 

"  And  do  you  think  a  girl  can  be  good 
who  behaves  so  in  public  ?" 

"I  know  plenty  that's  done  it,"  said 
she;  "and  I  don't  know  any  girls  but 
what's  good.  They  'ain't  got  wings,  may 
be,  but  you  don't  want  to  monkey  with 
'em,  neither." 

He  recollected  her  words  for  many  a 
year  afterward  and  pondered  them,  and 
perhaps  they  enlarged  his  understanding. 
She  also  often  thought  of  his  condemna 
tion  of  love-making  out-of-doors.  Kissing 
in  public,  especially  promiscuous  kissing, 
she  knew  to  be  a  debatable  pastime,  but 
she  also  knew  that  there  was  not  a  flat  in 
the  Big  Barracks  in  which  a  girl  could 
carry  on  a  courtship.  Fancy  her  attempt- 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   241 

ing  it  in  her  front  room,  with  the  room 
choked  with  people,  with  the  bahy  squall 
ing,  and  her  little  brothers  and  sisters 
quarrelling,  with  her  mother  entertaining 
half  a  dozen  women  visitors  with  tea  or 
beer,  and  with  a  man  or  two  dropping  in 
to  smoke  with  her  father!  Parlor  court 
ship  was  to  her,  like  precise  English,  a 
thing  only  known  in  novels.  The  thought 
of  novels  floated  her  soul  back  into  the 
dream  state. 

"I  think  Cordelia's  a  pretty  name," 
said  Fletcher,  cold  at  heart  but  strug 
gling  to  be  companionable. 

"  I  don't,"  said  Cordelia.  "  I'm  not  at 
all  crushed  on  it.  Your  name's  terrible 
pretty.  I  think  my  three  names  looks 
like  a  map  of  Ireland  when  they're  writ 
ten  down.  I  know  a  killin'  name  for  a 
girl.  It's  Clarice.  Maybe  some  day  I'll 
give  you  a  dare.  I'll  double  dare  you, 
maybe,  to  call  me  Clarice." 

Oh,  if  he  only  would,  she  thought — if 
he  would  only  call  her  so  now!  But  she 
forgot  how  unelastic  his  strange  routine 
of  life  must  have  left  him,  and  she  did 
not  dream  how  her  behavior  in  the  park 
had  displeased  him. 

"  Cordelia  is  a  pretty  name,"  he  repeat 
ed.  "  At  any  rate,  I  think  we  should  try 
to  make  the  most  and  best  of  whatever 

16   D.  G. 


242  Harper's  Novelettes 

name  has  come  to  us.  I  wouldn't  sail 
under  false  colors  for  a  minute." 

"Oh!"  said  she,  with  a  giggle  to  hide 
her  disappointment ;  "  you're  so  terrible 
wise !  When  you  talk  them  big  words  you 
can  pass  me  in  a  walk." 

Anxious  to  display  her  great  conquest 
to  the  other  girls  of  the  Barracks  neigh 
borhood,  Cordelia  persuaded  Mr.  Fletcher 
to  go  to  what  she  called  "  the  dock,"  to  en 
joy  the  cool  breath  of  the  river.  All  the 
piers  and  wharves  are  called  "  docks  "  by 
the  people.  Those  which  are  semi-public 
and  are  rented  to  miscellaneous  excursion 
and  river  steamers  are  crowded  nightly. 

The  wharf  to  which  our  couple  strolled 
was  a  mere  flooring  above  the  water, 
edged  with  a  stout  string-piece,  which 
formed  a  bench  for  the  mothers.  They 
were  there  in  groups,  some  seated  on  the 
string-piece  with  babes  in  arms  or  with 
perambulators  before  them,  and  others, 
facing  these,  standing  and  joining  in  the 
gossip,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  to  soothe 
their  little  ones.  Those  who  gave  their 
offspring  the  breast  did  so  publicly,  un 
embarrassed  by  a  modesty  they  would 
have  considered  false.  A  few  youthful 
couples,  boy  by  girl  and  girl  by  boy,  sat 
on  the  string-piece  and  whispered,  or 
bandied  fun  with  those  other  lovers  who 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   243 

patrolled  the  flooring  of  the  wharf.  A 
"gang"  of  rude  young  men — toughs — 
walked  up  and  down,  teasing  the  girls, 
wrestling,  scuffling,  and  roaring  out  bad 
language.  Troops  of  children  played  at 
leap-frog,  high-spy,  jack-stones,  bean-bag, 
hop-scotch,  and  tag.  At  the  far  end  of 
the  pier  some  young  men  and  women 
waltzed,  while  a  lad  on  the  string-piece 
played  for  them  on  his  mouth-organ.  A 
steady,  cool,  vivifying  breeze  from  the 
bay  swept  across  the  wharf  and  fanned 
all  the  idlers,  and  blew  out  of  their  heads 
almost  all  recollection  of  the  furnacelike 
heat  of  the  town. 

Cordelia  forgot  her  desire  to  display 
her  conquest.  She  forgot  her  true  self. 
She  likened  the  wharf  to  that  "lordly 
veranda  overlooking  the  sea,"  where  the 
future  Mayor  begged  Clarice  to  be  his 
bride.  She  knew  just  what  she  would  say 
when  her  prince  spoke  his  lines.  She 
and  Mr.  Fletcher  were  just  about  to  seat 
themselves  on  the  great  rim  of  the  wharf, 
when  an  uproar  of  the  harsh,  froglike 
voices  of  half-grown  men  caused  them  to 
turn  around.  They  saw  Jerry  Donahue 
striding  towards  them,  but  with  difficulty, 
because  half  a  dozen  lads  and  youths  were 
endeavoring  to  hold  him  back. 

«  Dat' s  Mr.  Fletcher,"  they  said.     "  It 


244  Harper's  Novelettes 

ain't  his  fault,  Jerry.  He's  dead  square; 
he's  a  gent,  Jerry." 

The  politician's  gilly  tore  himself  away 
from  his  friends.  The  gang  of  toughs 
gathered  behind  the  others.  Jerry  plant 
ed  himself  in  front  of  Cordelia.  Evident 
ly  he  did  not  know  the  submissive  part 
he  should  have  played  in  Cordelia's  ro 
mance.  James  the  butler  made  no  out 
break,  but  here  was  Jerry  angry  through 
and  through. 

"  You  didn't  keep  de  date  wid  me,"  he 
began. 

"Oh,  Jerry,  I  did— I  tried  to,  but 
you — "  Cordelia  was  red  with  shame. 

"  The  hell  you  did !    Wasn't  I—" 

"  Here !"  said  Mr.  Fletcher ;  "  you  can't 
swear  at  this  lady." 

"Why  wouldn't  I?"  Jerry  asked. 
"  What  would  you  do  ?" 

"He's  right,  Jerry.  Leave  him  be — 
see  ?"  said  the  chorus  of  Jerry's  friends. 

"A-a-a-h!"  snarled  Jerry.  "Let  him 
leave  me  be,  then.  Cordelia,  I  heard  you 
was  a  dead  fraud,  an'  now  I  know  it,  and 
I'm  a-tellin'  you  so,  straight — see  ?  I  was 
a-waitin'  'cross  der  street,  an'  I  seen  you 
come  out  an'  meet  dis  mug,  an'  you  never 
turned  yer  head  to  see  was  I  on  me  post. 
I  seen  dat,  an'  I'm  a-tellin'  yer  friend  just 
der  kind  of  a  racket  you  give  me,  der 


Cordelia's  Night  of  Romance   245 

same's  you've  give  a  hundred  other  fel 
lers.  Den,  if  he  likes  it  he  knows  what 
he's  gittin'." 

Jerry  was  so  angry  that  he  all  hut 
pushed  his  distorted  face  against  that  of 
the  humiliated  girl  as  he  denounced  her. 
Mr.  Fletcher  gently  moved  her  backward 
a  step  or  two,  and  advanced  to  where  she 
had  stood. 

"  That  will  do,"  he  said  to  Jerry.  "  I 
want  no  trouble,  but  you've  said  enough. 
If  there's  more,  say  it  to  me." 

"A-a-a-h!"  exclaimed  the  gilly,  expec 
torating  theatrically  over  his  shoulder. 
"  Me  friends  is  on  your  side,  an'  I  ain't 
pickin'  no  muss  wid  you.  But  she's  got 
der  front  of  der  City  Hall  to  do  me  like 
she  done.  And  say,  fellers,  den  she  was 
goin'  ter  give  me  a  song  an'  dance  'bout 
lookin'  fer  me.  Ba-a-a!  She  knows  my 
'pinion  of  her — see  ?" 

The  crowd  parted  to  let  Mr.  Fletcher 
finish  his  first  evening's  gallantry  to  a; 
lady  by  escorting  Cordelia  to  her  home. 
It  was  a  chilly  and  mainly  a  silent  jour 
ney.  Cordelia  falteringly  apologized  for 
Jerry's  misbehavior,  but  she  inferred 
from  what  Mr.  Fletcher  said  that  he  did 
not  fully  join  her  in  blaming  the  angry 
youth.  Mr.  Fletcher  touched  her  finger 
tips  in  bidding  her  good-night,  and  noth- 


246  Harper's  Novelettes 

ing  was  said  of  a  meeting  in  the  future. 
Clarice  was  forgotten,  and  Cordelia  was 
not  only  herself  again,  but  quite  a  miser 
able  self,  for  her  sobs  awoke  the  little 
brother  and  sister  who  shared  her  bed. 


The    Prize -Fund  Beneficiary 

BY  E.   A.   ALEXANDER 

MISS  SNELL  began  to  apologize 
for  interrupting  the  work  almost 
before  she  came  in.  The  Paint 
er,  who  grudgingly  opened  one  half  of 
the  folding-door  wide  enough  to  let  her 
pass  into  the  studio,  was  annoyed  to 
observe  that,  in  spite  of  her  apologies, 
she  was  loosening  the  furs  about  her 
throat  as  if  in  preparation  for  a  lengthy 
visit.  Then  for  the  first  time,  behind 
her  tall,  black-draped  figure,  he  caught 
sight  of  her  companion,  who  was  shorter, 
and  whose  draperies  were  of  a  less  ample 
character  —  for  Miss  Snell,  being  tall 
and  thin,  resorted  to  voluminous  gar 
ments  to  conceal  her  slimness  of  person. 
A  large  plumed  hat  accentuated  her  sal- 
lowness  and  sharpness  of  feature,  and 
her  dark  eyes,  set  under  heavy  black 
brows,  intensified  her  look  of  unhealthy 
pallor. 

She    was   perfectly   at   her   ease,    and 


248  Harper's  Novelettes 

introduced  her  companion,  Miss  Price, 
in  a  few  words,  explaining  that  the  lat 
ter  had  come  over  for  a  year  or  so  to 
study,  and  was  anxious  to  have  the  hest 
advice  about  it. 

"  So  I  brought  her  straight  here,"  Miss 
Snell  announced,  triumphantly. 

Miss  Price  seemed  a  trifle  overcome 
by  the  novelty  of  her  surroundings,  but 
managed  to  say,  in  a  high  nasal  voice, 
that  she  had  already  begun  to  work  at 
Julian's,  but  did  not  find  it  altogether 
satisfactory. 

The  Painter,  looking  at  her  indifferent 
ly,  was  roused  to  a  sudden  interest  by 
her  face.  Her  features  and  complexion 
were  certainly  pleasing,  but  the  untidy 
mass  of  straggling  hair  topped  by  a  bat 
tered  straw  sailor  hat  diverted  the  atten 
tion  of  a  casual  observer  from  her  really 
unusual  delicacy  of  feature  and  coloring. 
She  was  tall  and  slim,  although  now  she 
was  dwarfed  by  Miss  Snell's  gaunt  fig 
ure.  A  worn  dress  and  shabby  green 
cape  fastened  at  the  neck  by  a  button 
hanging  precariously  on  its  last  thread 
completed  her  very  unsuitable  winter  at 
tire. 

Outside  the  great  studio  window  a  cold 
December  twilight  was  settling  down  over 
roofs  covered  with  snow  and  icicles,  and 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    249 

the  Painter  shivered  involuntarily  as  he 
noticed  the  insufficiency  of  her  wraps  for 
such  weather,  and  got  up  to  stir  the  fire 
which  glowed  in  the  big  stove. 

In  one  corner  his  model  waited  patient 
ly  for  the  guests  to  depart,  and  he  now 
dismissed  her  for  the  day,  eliciting  faint 
protestations  from  Miss  Snell,  who,  how 
ever,  was  settling  down  comfortably  in 
an  easy-chair  by  the  fire,  with  an  evident 
intention  of  staying  indefinitely.  Miss 
Price's  large,  somewhat  expressionless 
blue  eyes  were  taking  in  the  whole  stu 
dio,  and  the  Painter  could  feel  that  she 
was  distinctly  disappointed  by  her  inspec 
tion.  She  had  evidently  anticipated  some 
thing  much  grander,  and  this  bare  room 
was  not  the  ideal  place  she  had  fancied 
the  studio  of  a  world-renowned  painter 
would  prove  to  be. 

Bare  painted  walls,  a  peaked  roof  with 
a  window  reaching  far  overhead,  a  pol 
ished  floor,  one  or  two  chairs  and  a  di 
van,  the  few  necessary  implements  of  his 
profession,  and  many  canvases  faced  to 
the  wall,  but  little  or  no  bric-a-brac  or 
delightful  studio  properties.  The  Painter 
was  also  conscious  that  her  inspection  in 
cluded  him  personally,  and  was  painfully 
aware  that  she  was  regarding  him  with 
the  same  feeling  of  disappointment;  she 


250  Harper's  Novelettes 

quite  evidently  thought  him  too  young 
and  insignificant  looking  for  a  person  of 
his  reputation. 

Miss  Snell  had  not  given  him  time  to 
reply  to  Miss  Price's  remark  about  her 
study  at  Julian's,  but  prattled  on  about 
her  own  work  and  the  unsurmountable 
difficulties  that  lay  in  the  way  of  a  wom 
an's  successful  career  as  a  painter. 

"  I  have  been  studying  for  years  under 
,"  said  Miss  Snell,  "  and  real 
ly  I  have  no  time  to  lose.  It  will  end 
by  my  simply  going  to  him  and  saying, 

quite  frankly :  '  Now,  Monsieur  ,  I 

have  been  in  your  atelier  for  four  years, 
and  I  can't  afford  to  waste  another  min 
ute.  There  are  no  two  ways  about  it. 
You  positively  must  tell  me  how  to  do  it. 
You  really  must  not  keep  me  waiting  any 
longer.  I  insist  upon  it.'  How  discour 
aging  it  is !"  she  sighed.  "  It  seems  quite 
impossible  to  find  any  one  who  is  willing 
to  give  the  necessary  information.'7 

Miss  Price's  wandering  eyes  had  at  last 
found  a  resting-place  on  a  large,  half -fin 
ished  canvas  standing  on  an  easel.  Some 
thing  attractive  in  the  pose  and  turn  of 
her  head  made  the  Painter  watch  her  as 
he  lent  a  feeble  attention  to  Miss  Snell's 
conversation. 

Miss  Price's  lips  were  very  red,  and  the 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    251 

clear  freshness  of  extreme  youth  bloomed 
in  her  cheeks;  she  was  certainly  charm 
ing.  During  one  of  Miss  Snell's  rare 
pauses  she  spoke,  and  her  thin  high  voice 
came  with  rather  a  shock  from  between 
her  full  lips. 

"May  I  look?"  was  her  unnecessary 
question,  for  her  eyes  had  never  left  the 
canvas  on  the  easel  since  they  had  first 
rested  there.  She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and 
went  over  to  the  painting. 

The  Painter  pulled  himself  out  of  the 
cushions  on  the  divan  where  he  had  been 
lounging,  and  went  over  to  push  the  big 
canvas  into  a  better  light.  Then  he  stood, 
while  the  girl  gazed  at  it,  saying  nothing, 
and  apparently  oblivious  to  everything 
but  the  work  before  him. 

He  was  roused,  not  by  Miss  Price,  who 
remained  admiringly  silent,  but  by  the 
enraptured  Miss  Snell,  who  had  also  risen, 
gathering  furs  and  wraps  about  her,  and 
was  now  ecstatically  voluble  in  her  ad 
miration.  English  being  insufficient  for 
the  occasion,  she  had  to  resort  to  French 
for  the  expression  of  her  enthusiasm. 

The  Painter  said  nothing,  but  watched 
the  younger  girl,  who  turned  away  at  last 
with  a  sigh  of  approbation.  He  was  stand 
ing  under  the  window,  leaning  against  a 
table  littered  with  paints  and  brushes. 


252  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Stay  where  you  are !"  exclaimed  Miss 
Snell,  excitedly.  "  Is  he  not  charming, 
Cora,  in  that  half-light?  You  must  let 
me  paint  you  just  so  some  day — you  must 
indeed."  She  clutched  Miss  Price  and 
turned  her  forcibly  in  his  direction. 

The  Painter,  confused  by  this  unex 
pected  onslaught,  moved  hastily  away 
and  busied  himself  with  a  pretence  of 
clearing  the  table. 

"I— I  should  be  delighted,"  he  stam 
mered,  in  his  embarrassment,  and  he 
caught  Miss  Price's  eye,  in  which  he  fan 
cied  a  smile  was  lurking. 

"But  you  have  not  given  Miss  Price 
a  word  of  advice  about  her  work,"  said 
Miss  Snell,  as  she  fastened  her  wraps 
preparatory  to  departure.  She  seemed 
quite  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  she  had 
monopolized  all  the  conversation  her 
self. 

He  turned  politely  to  Miss  Price,  who 
murmured  something  about  Julian's  be 
ing  so  badly  ventilated,  but  gave  him  no 
clew  as  to  her  particular  branch  of  the 
profession.  Miss  Snell,  however,  supplied 
all  details.  It  seemed  Miss  Price  was 
sharing  Miss  Snell's  studio,  having  been 
sent  over  by  the  Lynxville,  Massachusetts, 
Sumner  Prize  Fund,  for  which  she  had 
successfully  competed,  and  which  pro- 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    253 

vided  a  meagre  allowance  for  two  years' 
study  abroad. 

"  She  wants  to  paint  heads,"  said  Miss 
Snell ;  and  in  reply  to  a  remark  about  the 
great  amount  of  study  required  to  accom 
plish  this  desire,  surprised  him  by  saying, 
"  Oh,  she  only  wants  to  paint  them  well 
enough  to  teach,  not  well  enough  to  sell." 

"I'll  drop  in  and  see  your  work  some 
afternoon,"  promised  the  Painter,  warmed 
by  their  evident  intention  of  leaving ;  and 
he  escorted  them  to  the  landing,  warning 
them  against  the  dangerous  steepness  of 
his  stairway,  which  wound  down  in  al 
most  murky  darkness. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  centre  panel  of 
his  door  displayed  a  card  bearing  these 
words :  "  At  home  only  after  six  o'clock." 

"I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  doing 
this  before,"  he  reflected,  as  he  lit  a  cig 
arette  and  strolled  off  to  a  neighboring 
restaurant;  "I  am  always  out  by  that 
hour." 

Several  weeks  elapsed  before  he  saw 
Miss  Price  again,  for  he  promptly  forgot 
his  promise  to  visit  her  studio  and  inspect 
her  work.  His  own  work  was  very  ab 
sorbing  just  then,  and  the  short  winter 
days  all  too  brief  for  its  accomplishment. 
He  was  struggling  to  complete  the  large 


254  Harper's  Novelettes 

canvas  that  Miss  Snell  had  so  volubly 
admired  during  her  visit,  and  it  really 
seemed  to  be  progressing.  But  the  weather 
changed  suddenly  from  frost  to  thaw,  and 
he  woke  one  morning  to  find  little  run 
nels  of  dirty  water  coursing  down  his 
window  and  dismally  dripping  into  the 
muddy  street  below.  It  made  him  feel 
blue,  and  his  big  picture,  which  had 
seemed  so  promising  the  day  before, 
looked  hopelessly  bad  in  this  new  mood. 
So  he  determined  to  take  a  day  off,  and, 
after  his  coffee,  strolled  out  into  the  Lux 
embourg  Gardens.  There  the  statues  were 
green  with  mouldy  dampness,  and  the 
paths  had  somewhat  the  consistency  of 
very  thin  oatmeal  porridge.  Suddenly 
the  sun  came  out  brightly,  and  he  found 
a  partially  dry  bench,  where  he  sat  down 
to  brood  upon  the  utter  worthlessness  of 
things  in  general  and  the  Luxembourg 
statuary  in  particular.  The  sunny  fagado 
of  the  palace  glittered  in  the  brightness. 
One  of  his  own  pictures  hung  in  its  gal 
lery.  "It  is  bad,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"hopelessly  bad,"  and  he  gloomily  felt 
the  strongest  proof  of  its  worthlessness 
was  its  popularity  with  the  public.  He 
would  probably  go  on  thinking  this  un 
til  the  weather  or  his  mood  changed. 
As  his  eyes  strayed  from  the  palace,  he 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    255 

glanced  up  a  long  vista  between  leafless 
trees  and  muddy  grass-plats.  A  familiar 
figure  in  a  battered  straw  hat  and  scanty 
green  cloak  was  advancing  in  his  direc 
tion  ;  the  wind,  blowing  back  the  fringe  of 
disfiguring  short  hair,  disclosed  a  pure  un 
broken  line  of  delicate  profile,  strangely 
simple,  and  recalling  the  profiles  in  Bot 
ticelli's  lovely  fresco  in  the  Louvre.  Miss 
Price,  for  it  was  she,  carried  a  painting- 
box,  and  under  one  arm  a  stretcher  that 
gave  her  infinite  trouble  whenever  the 
wind  caught  it.  As  she  passed,  the  Painter 
half  started  up  to  join  her,  but  she  gave 
him  such  a  cold  nod  that  his  intention 
was  nipped  in  the  bud.  He  felt  snubbed, 
and  sank  back  on  his  bench,  taking  a 
malicious  pleasure  in  observing  that, 
womanlike,  she  ploughed  through  all  the 
deepest  puddles  in  her  path,  making  great 
splashes  about  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  that 
fluttered  out  behind  her  as  she  walked, 
for  her  hands  were  filled,  and  she  had  no 
means  of  holding  it  up. 

The  Painter  resented  his  snubbing.  He 
was  used  to  the  most  humble  deference 
from  the  art  students  of  the  quarter,  who 
hung  upon  his  slightest  word,  and  were 
grateful  for  every  stray  crumb  of  his  at 
tention. 

He  now  lost  what  little  interest  he  had 


256  Harper's  Novelettes 

previously  taken  in  his  surroundings. 
Just  before  him  in  a  large  open  space  re 
served  for  the  boys  to  play  handball  was 
a  broken  sheet  of  glistening  water  reflect 
ing  the  blue  sky,  the  trees  rattled  their 
branches  about  in  the  wind,  and  now  and 
then  a  tardy  leaf  fluttered  down  from 
where  it  had  clung  desperately  late  into 
the  winter.  The  gardens  were  almost  de 
serted.  It  was  too  early  for  the  throng 
of  beribboned  nurses  and  howling  infants 
who  usually  haunt  its  benches.  One  or 
two  pedestrians  hurried  across  the  garden, 
evidently  taking  the  route  to  make  short 
cuts  to  their  destinations,  and  not  for  the 
pleasure  of  lounging  among  its  blustery 
attractions. 

After  idling  an  hour  on  his  bench,  he 
went  to  breakfast  with  a  friend  who 
chanced  to  live  conveniently  near,  and 
where  he  made  himself  very  disagreeable 
by  commenting  unfavorably  on  the  work 
in  progress  and  painting  in  particular. 
Then  he  brushed  himself  up  and  started 
off  for  the  rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs, 
where  Miss  Snell's  studio  was  situated.  It 
was  one  of  a  number  huddled  together  in 
an  old  and  rather  dilapidated  building, 
and  the  porter  at  the  entrance  gave  him 
minute  directions  as  to  its  exact  location, 
but  after  stumbling  up  three  flights  of 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary     257 

dark  stairs  he  had  no  trouble  in  finding 
it,  for  Miss  SnelFs  name,  preceded  by  a 
number  of  initials,  shone  out  from  a  door 
directly  in  front  of  him  as  he  reached  the 
landing. 

He  knocked,  and  for  several  minutes 
there  was  a  wild  scurrying  within  and  a 
rattle  and  clash  of  crockery.  Then  Miss 
Snell  appeared  at  the  door,  and  exclaimed, 
in  delighted  surprise : 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  We  had  quite  given 
you  up," 

She  looked  taller  and  longer  than  ever 
swathed  in  a  blue  painting-apron  and 
grasping  her  palette  and  brushes.  She 
had  to  apologize  for  not  shaking  hands 
with  him,  because  her  fingers  were  cov 
ered  with  paint  that  had  been  hastily  but 
ineffectually  wiped  off  on  a  rag  before 
she  answered  his  knock. 

He  murmured  something  about  not 
coming  before  because  of  his  work,  but 
she  would  not  let  him  finish,  saying,  in 
tensely, 

"  We  know  how  precious  every  minute 
is  to  you." 

Miss  Price  came  reluctantly  forward 
and  shook  hands;  she  had  evidently  not 
been  painting,  for  her  fingers  were  quite 
clean.  Short  ragged  hair  once  more  fell 
over  her  forehead,  and  the  Painter  felt  a 
17  JO-ti. 


258  Harper's  Novelettes 

shock  of  disappointment,  and  wondered 
why  he  had  thought  her  so  fine  when  she 
passed  him  in  the  morning. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  paint  Cora,"  an 
nounced  Miss  Snell.  "  She  is  taking  a 
holiday  this  afternoon,  and  we  were  hunt 
ing  for  a  pose  when  you  knocked." 

"  Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "  Perhaps  I  can  help." 

Miss  Snell  was  in  a  flutter  at  once,  and 
protested  that  she  should  be  almost  afraid 
to  work  while  he  was  there. 

"  In  that  case  I  shall  leave  at  once,"  he 
said;  but  his  chair  was  comfortable,  and 
he  made  no  motion  to  go. 

"What  a  queer  little  place  it  is!"  he 
reflected,  as  he  looked  about.  "All  sorts 
of  odds  and  ends  stuck  about  helter-skel 
ter,  and  the  house-keeping  things  trying 
to  masquerade  as  bric-a-brac." 

Cora  Price  looked  decidedly  sulky  when 
she  realized  that  the  Painter  intended  to 
stay,  and  seeing  this  he  became  rooted  in 
his  intention.  He  wondered  why  she  took 
this  particular  attitude  towards  him,  and 
concluded  she  was  piqued  because  of  his 
delay  in  calling.  She  acted  like  a  spoiled 
child,  and  caused  Miss  Snell,  who  was 
overcome  by  his  condescension  in  stay 
ing,  no  little  embarrassment. 

It  was  quite  evident  from  her  behavior 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    259 

that  Miss  Price  was  impressed  with  her 
own  importance  as  the  beneficiary  of  the 
Lynxville  Prize  Fund,  and  would  require 
the  greatest  deference  from  her  acquaint 
ances  in  consequence. 

"  Here,  Cora,  try  this,"  said  Miss  Snell, 
planting  a  small  three-legged  stool  on  a 
rickety  model-stand. 

"  Might  I  make  a  suggestion  ?"  said  the 
Painter,  coolly.  "  I  should  push  back  all 
the  hair  on  her  forehead;  it  gives  a  finer 
line." 

"  Why,  of  course !"  said  Miss  Snell.  "  I 
wonder  we  never  thought  of  that  before. 
Cora  dear,  you  are  much  better  with  your 
hair  back." 

Cora  said  nothing,  but  the  Botticelli 
profile  glowered  ominously  against  a 
background  of  sage  -  green  which  Miss 
Snell  was  elaborately  draping  behind  it. 

"  If  I  might  advise  again,"  the  Paint 
er  said,  "I  would  take  that  down  and 
paint  her  quite  simply  against  the  gray 
wall." 

Miss  Snell  was  quite  willing  to  adopt 
every  suggestion.  She  produced  her 
materials  and  a  fresh  canvas,  and  began 
making  a  careful  drawing,  which,  as  it 
progressed,  filled  the  Painter's  soul  with 
awe. 

"  I  feel  awfully  like  trying  it  myself," 


260  Harper's  Novelettes 

he  said,  after  watching-  her  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  "  Can  I  have  a  bit  of  canvas  ?" 

"  Take  anything,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Snell ;  and  he  helped  himself,  refusing  the 
easel  which  she  wanted  to  force  upon  him, 
and  propping  his  little  stretcher  up  on  a 
chair.  Miss  Snell  stopped  her  drawing  to 
watch  him  commence.  It  made  her  rather 
nervous  to  see  how  much  paint  he 
squeezed  out  on  the  palette;  it  seemed  to 
her  a  reckless  prodigality. 

He  eyed  her  assortment  of  brushes 
dubiously,  selecting  three  from  the  drag 
gled  limp  collection. 

Cora  was  certainly  a  fine  subject,  in 
spite  of  her  sulkiness,  and  he  grew  ab 
sorbed  in  his  work,  and  painted  away, 
with  Miss  Snell  at  his  elbow  making  lit 
tle  staccato  remarks  of  admiration  as  the 
sketch  progressed.  Suddenly  he  jumped 
up,  realizing  how  long  he  had  kept  the 
young  model. 

"  Dear  me,"  he  cried,  "  you  must  be  ex 
hausted!"  and  he  ran  to  help  her  down 
from  the  model-stand. 

She  did  look  tired,  and  Miss  Snell  sug 
gested  tea,  which  he  stayed  to  share. 
Cora  became  less  and  less  sulky,  and  when 
at  last  he  remembered  that  he  had  come  to 
see  her  work,  she  produced  it  with  less 
unwillingness  than  he  had  expected. 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    261 

He  was  rather  floored  by  her  produc 
tions.  As  far  as  he  could  judge  from 
what  she  showed  him,  she  was  hopelessly 
without  talent,  and  he  could  only  wonder 
which  of  these  remarkably  bad  studies 
had  won  for  her  the  Lynxville  Sumner 
Prize  Fund. 

He  tried  to  give  her  some  advice,  and 
was  thanked  when  she  put  her  things 
away. 

Then  they  all  looked  at  his  sketch, 
which  Miss  Snell  pronounced  "  too  charm 
ing,"  and  Cora  plainly  thought  did  not  do 
her  justice. 

"I  wish  you  would  pose  a  few  times 
for  me,  Miss  Price,"  he  said,  before  leav 
ing.  "  I  should  like  very  much  to  paint 
you,  and  it  would  be  doing  me  a  great 
favor." 

The  girl  did  not  respond  to  this  request 
with  any  eagerness.  He  fancied  he  could 
see  she  was  feeling  huffy  again  at  his 
meagre  praise  of  her  work. 

Miss  Snell,  however,  did  not  allow  her 
to  answer,  but  rapturously  promised  that 
Cora  should  sit  as  often  as  he  liked,  and 
paid  no  attention  to  the  girl's  protest  that 
she  had  no  time  to  spare. 

"  This  has  been  simply  in  -  spiring !" 
said  Miss  Snell,  as  she  bade  him  good-bye, 
and  he  left  very  enthusiastic  about  Cora's 


262  Harper's  Novelettes 

profile,  and  with  his  hand  covered  will 
paint  from  Miss  Snell's  door-knob. 

In  spite  of  Miss  Snell's  assurance  that 
Cora  would  pose,  the  Painter  was  con 
vinced  that  she  would  not,  if  a  suitable 
excuse  could  be  invented.  Feeling  this, 
he  wrote  her  a  most  civil  note  about  it. 
The  answer  came  promptly,  and  did  not 
surprise  him. 

She  was  very  sorry  indeed,  but  she  had 
no  leisure  hours  at  her  disposal,  and  al 
though  she  felt  honored,  she  really  could 
not  do  it.  This  was  written  on  flimsy 
paper,  in  a  big  unformed  handwriting, 
and  it  caused  him  to  betake  himself  once 
more  to  Miss  Snell's  studio,  where  he 
found  her  alone — Cora  was  at  Julian's. 

She  promised  to  beg  Cora  to  pose,  and 
accepted  an  invitation  for  them  to  break 
fast  with  him  in  his  studio  on  the  follow 
ing  Sunday  morning. 

He  carefully  explained  to  her  that  his 
whole  winter's  work  depended  upon  Cora's 
posing  for  him.  He  half  meant  it,  hav 
ing  been  seized  with  the  notion  that  her 
type  was  what  he  needed  to  realize  a 
cherished  ideal,  and  he  told  this  to  Miss 
Snell,  and  enlarged  upon  it  until  he  left 
her  rooted  in  the  conviction  that  he  was 
hopelessly  in  love  with  Cora — a  fact  she 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary     263 

imparted  to  that  young  woman  on  her 
return  from  Julian's. 

Cora  listened  very  placidly,  and  ex 
pressed  no  astonishment.  He  was  not 
the  first  by  any  means;  other  people  had 
been  in  love  with  her  in  Lynxville,  Mas 
sachusetts,  and  she  confided  the  details  of 
several  of  these  love-affairs  to  Miss  Snell's 
sympathetic  ears  during  the  evening. 

Meanwhile,  the  Painter  did  nothing, 
and  a  fresh  canvas  stood  on  his  easel 
when  the  girls  arrived  for  breakfast  on 
Sunday  morning.  The  big  unfinished 
painting  was  turned  to  the  wall;  he  had 
lost  all  interest  in  it. 

"  When  I  fancy  doing  a  thing  I  am 
good  for  nothing  else,"  he  explained  to 
Cora,  after  she  had  promised  him  a  few 
sittings.  "  So  you  are  really  saving  me 
from  idleness  by  posing." 

Cora  laughed,  and  was  silent.  The 
Painter  blessed  her  for  not  being  talk 
ative;  her  nasal  voice  irritated  him,  al 
though  her  beautiful  features  were  a  con 
stant  delight. 

Miss  Snell  had  succeeded  in  perma 
nently  eliminating  the  disfiguring  bang, 
and  her  charming  profile  was  left  un- 
marred. 

"  I  want  to  paint  you  just  as  you  are," 
he  said,  and  noticing  that  she  looked 


264          Harper's  Novelettes 

rather  disdainfully  at  her  shabby  black 
cashmere,  added,  "The  black  of  your 
dress  could  not  be  better." 

"  We  thought,"  said  Miss  Snell,  depre- 
catingly,  "  that  you  might  like  a  costume. 
We  could  easily  arrange  one." 

"  Not  in  the  least  necessary,"  said  the 
Painter.  "  I  have  set  my  heart  on  paint 
ing  her  just  as  she  is." 

The  girls  were  disappointed  in  his  want 
of  taste.  They  had  had  visions  of  a  crea 
tion  in  which  two  Liberty  scarfs  and  a 
velveteen  table  cover  were  combined  in  a 
felicitous  harmony  of  color. 

"When  can  I  have  the  first  sitting?" 
he  asked. 

"  Tuesday,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Snell, 
reflectively. 

"  Heavens !"  thought  the  Painter.  "  Is 
Miss  Snell  coming  with  her?"  And  the 
possibility  kept  him  in  a  state  of  nervous 
ness  until  Tuesday  afternoon,  when  Cora 
appeared,  accompanied  by  the  inevitable 
Miss  Snell. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  the  latter 
could  not  stay.  She  would  call  for  Cora 
later;  just  now  her  afternoons  were  oc 
cupied.  She  was  doing  a  pastel  portrait 
in  the  Champs  Elysees  quarter,  so  she  re 
luctantly  left,  to  the  Painter's  great  relief. 

He  did  not  make  himself  very  agree- 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    265 

able  during  the  sittings  which  followed. 
He  was  apt  to  get  absorbed  in  his  work 
and  to  forget  to  say  anything.  Then  Miss 
Snell  would  appear  to  fetch  her  friend, 
and  he  would  apologize  for  being  so  dull, 
and  Cora  would  remark  that  she  enjoyed 
sitting  quietly,  it  rested  her  after  the 
noise  and  confusion  at  Julian's. 

"  If  she  talked  much  I  could  not  paint 
her,  her  voice  is  so  irritating,"  he  con 
fided  to  a  friend  who  was  curious  and 
asked  all  sorts  of  questions  about  his  new 
sitter. 

The  work  went  well  but  slowly,  for 
Cora  sat  only  twice  a  week.  She  felt 
obliged  to  devote  the  rest  of  her  time  to 
study,  as  she  was  living  on  the  prize  fund, 
and  she  even  had  qualms  of  conscience 
about  the  two  afternoons  she  gave  up  to 
the  sittings. 

During  all  this  time  Miss  Snell  con 
tinued  to  weave  chapters  of  romance 
about  Cora  and  the  Painter,  and  the  girls 
talked  things  over  after  each  sitting  when 
they  were  alone  together. 

Spring  had  appeared  very  early  in  the 
year,  and  the  public  gardens  and  boule 
vards  were  richly  green.  Chestnut-trees 
blossomed  and  gaudy  flower-beds  bloomed 
in  every  square.  The  Salons  opened, 
and  were  thronged  with  an  enthusiastic 


266          Harper's  Novelettes 

public,  although  the  papers  as  usual  de 
nounced  them  as  being  the  poorest  exhi 
bitions  ever  given. 

The  Painter  had  sent  nothing,  being 
completely  absorbed  in  finishing  Cora's 
portrait,  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  every 
thing  else. 

Cora  did  the  exhibitions  faithfully.  It 
was  one  of  the  duties  she  owed  to  the 
Lynxville  fund,  and  which  she  diligently 
carried  out.  The  Painter  bothered  and 
confused  her  by  many  things;  he  per 
sistently  admired  all  the  pictures  she  liked 
least,  and  praised  all  those  she  did  not 
care  for.  She  turned  pale  with  suppressed 
indignation  when  he  differed  from  her 
opinion,  and  resented  his  sweeping  con 
tempt  of  her  criticisms. 

On  the  strength  of  a  remittance  from 
the  prize  fund,  and  in  honor  of  the  sea 
son,  she  discarded  the  sailor  hat  for  a 
vivid  ready-made  creation  smacking 
strongly  of  the  Bon  Marche.  The  weath 
er  was  warm,  and  Cora  wore  mitts, 
which  the  Painter  thought  unpardonable 
in  a  city  where  gloves  are  particularly 
cheap.  The  mitts  were  probably  fashion 
able  in  Lynxville,  Massachusetts.  Miss 
Snell,  who  rustled  about  in  stiff  black 
silk  and  bugles,  seemed  quite  oblivious 
to  her  friend's  want  of  taste;  she  was  all 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    267 

excitement,  for  her  pastel  portrait — by 
some  hideous  mistake — had  been  accepted 
and  hung  in  one  of  the  exhibitions,  and 
the  girls  went  together  on  varnishing 
day  to  see  it.  There  they  met  the  Paint 
er  prowling  aimlessly  about,  and  Miss 
Snell  was  delighted  to  note  his  devotion 
to  Cora.  It  was  a  strong  proof  of  his 
attachment  to  her,  she  thought.  The 
truth  was  he  felt  obliged  to  be  civil  after 
her  kindness  in  posing.  He  wished  he 
could  repay  her  in  some  fashion,  but  since 
his  first  visit  to  Miss  Snell's  she  had  nev 
er  offered  to  show  him  her  work  again, 
or  asked  his  advice  in  any  way,  and  he 
felt  a  delicacy  about  offering  his  services 
as  a  teacher  when  she  gave  him  so  little 
encouragement.  He  fancied,  too,  that  she 
did  not  take  much  interest  in  his  work, 
and  knew  she  did  not  appreciate  his  por 
trait  of  her,  which  was  by  far  the  best 
thing  he  had  ever  done. 

Her  lack  of  judgment  vexed  him,  for 
he  knew  the  value  of  his  work,  and  ev 
ery  day  his  fellow-painters  trooped  in  to 
see  it,  and  were  loud  in  their  praises.  It 
would  certainly  be  the  clou  of  any  ex 
hibition  in  which  it  might  be  placed. 

During  one  sitting  Cora  ventured  to 
remark  that  she  thought  it  a  pity  he  did 
not  intend  to  make  the  portrait  more 


268  Harper's  Novelettes 

complete,  and  suggested  the  addition  of 
various  accessories  which  in  her  opinion 
would  very  much  improve  it. 

"It's  by  far  the  most  complete  thing 
I  have  ever  done,"  he  said.  "  I  sha'n't 
touch  it  again/'  and  he  flung  down  his 
brushes  in  a  fit  of  temper. 

She  looked  at  him  contemptuously, 
and  putting  on  her  hat,  left  the  studio 
without  another  word;  and  for  several 
weeks  he  did  not  see  her  again. 

Then  he  met  her  in  the  street,  and 
begged  her  to  come  and  pose  for  a  head 
in  his  big  picture,  which  he  had  taken  up 
once  more.  His  apologies  were  so  ab 
ject  that  she  consented,  but  she  ceased 
to  be  punctual,  and  he  never  could  feel 
quite  sure  that  she  would  keep  her  ap 
pointments. 

Sometimes  he  would  wait  a  whole  af 
ternoon  in  vain,  and  one  day  when  she 
failed  to  appear  at  the  promised  hour  he 
shut  up  his  office  and  strolled  down  to 
the  Seine.  There  he  caught  sight  of  her 
with  a  gay  party  who  were  about  to  em 
bark  on  one  of  the  little  steamers  that 
ply  up  and  down  the  river. 

He  shook  his  fist  at  her  from  the  quay 
where  he  stood,  and  watched  her  and  her 
party  step  into  the  boat  from  the  pier. 

"  She  thinks  little  enough  of  the  Lynx- 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary    269 

ville  Prize  Fund  when  she  wants  an  out 
ing,"  he  said  to  himself,  scornfully. 

After  fretting  a  little  over  his  wasted 
afternoon,  he  forgot  all  about  her,  and  set 
to  work  with  other  models.  Then  he  left 
Paris  for  the  summer. 

A  few  hours  after  his  return,  early  in 
the  fall,  there  came  a  knock  at  his  door. 
He  had  been  admiring  Cora's  portrait, 
which  to  his  fresh  eye  looked  exception 
ally  good. 

Miss  Snell,  with  eyes  red  and  tearful, 
stood  on  his  door-mat  when  he  answered 
the  tap. 

"Poor  dear  Cora,"  she  said,  had  re 
ceived  a  notice  from  the  Lynxville  com 
mittee  that  they  did  not  consider  her  work 
sufficiently  promising  to  continue  the 
fund  another  year. 

"  She  will  have  to  go  home,"  sobbed 
Miss  Snell,  but  said:  "I  am  forced 
to  admit  that  Cora  has  wasted  a  good 
deal  of  time  this  summer.  She  is  so 
young,  and  needs  a  little  distraction 
now  and  then,"  and  she  appealed  to  the 
Painter  for  confirmation  of  this  undoubt 
ed  fact. 

He  was  absent-minded,  but  assented  to 
all  she  said.  In  his  heart  he  thought  it  a 
fortunate  thing  that  the  prize  fund  should 


270          Harper's  Novelettes 

be  withdrawn.  One  female  art  student 
the  less:  he  grew  pleased  with  the  idea. 
Cora  had  ceased  to  interest  him  as  an  in 
dividual,  and  he  considered  her  only  as 
one  of  an  obnoxious  class. 

"  I  thought  you  ought  to  be  the  first  to 
know  about  it,"  said  Miss  Snell,  confi 
dentially,  "  because  you  might  have  some 
plan  for  keeping  her  over  here."  Miss 
Snell  looked  unutterable  things  that  she 
did  not  dare  to  put  into  words. 

She  made  the  Painter  feel  uncomfort 
able,  she  looked  so  knowing,  and  he  be 
came  loud  in  his  advice  to  send  Cora  home 
at  once. 

"  Pack  her  off,"  he  cried.  "  She  is  wast 
ing  time  and  money  by  staying.  She 
never  had  a  particle  of  talent,  and  the 
sooner  she  goes  back  to  Lyiixville  the 
better." 

Miss  Snell  shrank  from  his  vehemence, 
and  wished  she  had  not  insisted  upon 
coming  to  consult  him.  She  had  as 
sured  Cora  that  the  merest  hint  would 
bring  matters  to  a  crisis.  Cora  would 
imagine  that  she  had  bungled  matters 
terribly,  and  she  was  mortified  at  the 
thought  of  returning  with  the  news  of  a 
repulse. 

As  soon  as  she  had  gone,  the  Painter 
felt  sorry  he  had  been  so  hasty.  He  had 


The  Prize-Fund  Beneficiary     271 

bundled  her  unceremoniously  out  of  the 
studio,  pleading  important  work. 

He  called  twice  in  the  rue  Notre  Dame 
des  Champs,  but  the  porter  would  never 
let  him  pass  her  lodge,  and  he  at  last  real 
ized  that  she  had  been  given  orders  to 
that  effect.  A  judicious  tip  extracted 
from  her  the  fact  that  Miss  Price  expected 
to  leave  for  America  the  following  Sat 
urday,  and,  armed  with  an  immense  bou 
quet,  he  betook  himself  to  the  St.  Lazare 
station  at  the  hour  for  the  departure  of 
the  Havre  express. 

He  arrived  with  only  a  minute  to  spare 
before  the  guard's  whistle  was  answered 
by  the  mosquitolike  pipe  that  sets  the 
train  in  motion. 

The  Botticelli  profile  was  very  haughty 
and  cold.  Miss  Snell  was  there,  of  course, 
bathed  in  tears.  He  had  just  time  enough 
to  hand  in  his  huge  bouquet  through  the 
open  window  before  the  train  started.  He 
caught  one  glimpse  of  an  angry  face  with 
in,  when  suddenly  his  great  nosegay  came 
flying  out  of  the  compartment,  and  strik 
ing  him  full  in  the  face,  spread  its  shat 
tered  paper  and  loosened  flowers  all  over 
the  platform  at  his  feet. 

THE    END 


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